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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 05
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 5
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DargonZine Distributed: 5/28/2000
Volume 13, Number 5 Circulation: 746
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Talisman Four Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Naia 16, 346 BY
Cat's Cry Carlo N. Samson Firil 24, 1014
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 13-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 2000 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
In many ways, DargonZine is just like any other amateur writing
group that you'd find meeting in libraries, bookstores, and coffee shops
everywhere. In some ways, those traditional groups have certain
advantages over us: it's much easier to critique a work face-to-face
than via email, and the author has much more control over how widely his
or her works are distributed. Why, then, would writers accept these
shortcomings and submit their stories to DargonZine?
The answer is you: our readers. Getting feedback and criticism from
interested readers is one of the most powerful, exciting, and rewarding
parts of writing, and it's something DargonZine is uniquely able to
encourage. Amateur writers come to us because we distribute their
stories to a large number of representative fiction readers all over the
world, and give those writers the opportunity to receive honest and
constructive comments from their readers. In brief, DargonZine uses the
Internet to bring readers and writers closer together.
To foster this interaction, we've always asked readers to send us
their feedback, whether by filling out our online reader profile and
questionnaire, sending mail to the Editor, or emailing individual
writers with story comments. However, reader feedback of any kind has
never been very frequent. So recently we gave some thought to how we
could make it easier and more fun for readers to tell us what they think
of our works so that we, in turn, can write better stories.
So after lots of thought and discussion, I'm pleased to announce
that in this issue we're going to pilot a new idea: giving you, our
readers, the ability to "rate" each story.
If you are reading this issue as an HTML page on our Web site, at
the end of both stories in this issue you'll find a sidebar that
contains several voting buttons that allow you to quickly tell us what
you think about the story you've just finished reading. You can also
display a page with a summary graph of all the reader votes and each of
the comments that the story has received. By giving you access to other
readers' ratings and comments, we're fostering a little more
communication between our readers, as well!
But the real goal is to give you, our readers, more of a
participatory role in what we do, without asking you for a lot of time
or energy. We intentionally kept the interface and options simple in
order to ensure that casting your vote would be quick, easy, and fun. Of
course, we still eagerly welcome additional feedback, as well. But
please take the time to try rating the stories in this issue! If it
works out and is well-received, we hope to very quickly add the ratings
sidebar to all our stories, both past and future, and we look forward to
hearing more about your thoughts on each of the stories we print.
This issue contains stories from two of Dargon's elders, both of
whom printed their first stories way back in 1986, when DargonZine was
still called FSFnet. The issue begins with Dafydd's "Talisman Four".
This, the eighteenth chapter in his Talisman saga, begins to tie
together the various threads that Dafydd has woven together over the
past 18 months. The rest of the issue is devoted to a lengthy new story
from another Dargon "lifer", Carlo Samson.
Looking forward, we hope to distribute our next issue around July
1. We are, of course, approaching the traditional time of year for our
annual DargonZine Writers' Summit, so it may take a week or two longer
than usual for us to get the next issue to you. But that issue will
contain a write-up and a pointer to photos from the Summit as well as
more new fiction, so watch for it!
========================================================================
Talisman Four
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Naia 16, 346 BY
Ah yes, by grace, it is a beautiful day.
What could be better than sitting here in my own courtyard under
the limbs of this wide-spread chestnut tree, just watching as the shadow
of the tree moves from the left side of the courtyard to the right? But
my chair is in the perfect place, because the shade never abandons me,
never.
Watching the shadows move is not all I do, of course. My chair
faces the corner of the courtyard where the gateway leads out onto the
village square. Well, it wants to be a square, the center meeting place
of the community. But it really isn't one, not yet. It is still just a
crossroads, though more built up now than it used to be. Why, I remember
stopping at Pyinalt's inn, the Buzzard's Roost, more than two hundred
years ago.
Buzzard's Roost, ha! It was supposed to be a joke, a way to keep
the bad luck off. Too bad it was more accurate than old Pyinalt wanted
it to be. Should have been a good place to set up an inn, at a busy
crossroads like that. Problem was that the crossroads was badly placed:
it wasn't a convenient stopping place. Pyinalt would have gone out of
business if the entire village of Terapha hadn't been destroyed by a
mysterious fire.
But any like, things are better these days. The Buzzard's Roost is
still there, right across from me. Of course, Pyinalt doesn't still own
it; it's not even in his family any longer. And there are shops to
either side: a bakery, and a leather-goods store. Good thing the tannery
is leagues away! And across the square, there's my place, the only
blacksmith's for scores of leagues. I'd say, we're well on our way to
becoming a village, you bet! Even if we're so small we have to borrow
our rats from the next town over, as my da used to say.
I wonder, every now and then, whether Pyinalt even has any family
left. And if he does, what do they think of no longer owning the
Buzzard's Roost? I wonder what the family of the person who built this
smithy thinks of no longer owning it? My da bought this place from the
previous owner who just didn't have the knack for being a frontier
smith. They probably think they're better off, but I know that my da
found his purpose when he bought this place.
The previous owner must really have been inept, too; how hard can
it be to run the only blacksmith's shop at a trade crossroads when there
isn't any competition for leagues around? Business just comes to you
naturally. All you have to do is do the work. Da had his hands full with
that until he got his apprentices. Then he had enough time to court a
wife and have a child.
Then again, if da hadn't come here and bought this place, and then
brought me into the world in this place and tried to teach me the family
business when there just weren't any other options around, then maybe I
wouldn't have had the accident ...
I've wondered for a long time whether I should change the sign that
hangs over the gateway. After all, it has my da's name on it, and he's
been dead for nine years. Even though I run the smithy now, it is still,
for truth, his business. I'm no blacksmith, but I'm good at running the
business end. Between ma and me, we were able to keep the apprentices'
lessons going. With the help of passing tinkers, and one
down-on-his-luck smith, we stayed in business until those apprentices
were capable of working fully on their own. Several stayed with us --
are still with us -- and under my management, the business is growing
and prospering. Not that it was all my doing. Ma treated those
apprentices more like her own children than simple students, and the
ones who stayed are as much my family as da and ma. Now that ma's dead
too, these past three years, our full smiths call me 'papa', and the new
apprentices call me 'uncle'.
I suppose that I would have changed the sign years ago if I could
have done it myself, but I can't read or write. Da hired someone to
paint the sign that bears his name. 'Mayander's Blacksmithing' it is
supposed to say, and I suppose it does. I've certainly never heard
anyone laugh on reading it as they might if it said 'Mayander is a
jackass'. Nor has anyone run away upon reading it, so it probably don't
say 'Mayander is a lousy blacksmith' either. Of course, most of the
people who come in here do so because of the large horseshoe that hangs
from the corner of the gate; most can't read any better than I can.
Maybe another reason I haven't changed the sign is because I don't
feel like a replacement for my da. He was a large man, swarthy, with
lots of dark hair on his arms and chest, and on his head and face. Ma
was large, too, and would have made a good smith with more training. Me,
I'm tall but not as tall as either of them, and not large in any other
way. I have chestnut-colored hair, and pale grey eyes, and my skin is
fairer than either of theirs as well. Before the accident, I thought
that my arms and chest would thicken like da's from swinging the hammer.
But that wasn't how it was to be.
'Eldirhan's Blacksmithing' would be a good sign to hang over my
gate. I would feel strange, though, having my name replace my da's.
Though maybe I would have to ask the traveling scribe to letter it as
'Eldirhan's Blacksmithy' since I'm not and never will be an actual
smith. Not now, anyway.
But it is my smithy. I arrange for the supplies of charcoal and
iron. I arrange contracts beyond the business that walks or is led into
my courtyard each day, and I make the deals for the apprentices that
keep the smithy going. But it isn't my hammer crashing down on the
anvils every day, filling the yard with the music of metal on metal, not
my hands that shape that metal into new and useful shapes. Not my
blacksmithing, but certainly my blacksmithy.
Actually, I never really wanted to be a smith. When I was young, I
wanted to ride with a caravan. I didn't care what job I had, I just
wanted to travel. There was -- there still is, sadly -- something about
that kind of life that drew me like a man dying of thirst to a spring. I
wanted to roam; I wanted to travel and explore; I needed to be free to
find whatever it was that was drawing me.
But I needed to stay home, to learn to be a smith. I was going to
continue the dynasty of blacksmiths my da wanted to start. I was
fourteen when I first stepped up to the anvil with a hammer in my hand.
I had worked in the forge for longer than that, stoking the fires,
pumping the bellows, hauling coal and iron, even gentling the horses
that were come in to get shod. And I had watched da and the other, older
apprentices all the while, trying to learn the craft because I had to.
But you can't learn smithing by watching. You have to get the feel of
the hammer and the metal; you have to teach your hands what to do when
by the doin' of it, not by watching someone else do it.
I still don't know what went wrong. One hammer-blow is all I got to
swing, and then something exploded. The fire, the metal, the hammer
itself, I just don't know. But whatever it was, that accident changed my
life more radically than I could ever have imagined ...
Now I know things. I remember things that people say are
impossible. I remember riding through the crossroads out there, even
staying at the Buzzard's Roost, two hundred or so years ago, but as a
woman named Eleerand. I remember other lives as other people, far back
in time, in places I never even dreamed existed before the accident.
I remember being a woman named Eldinan who was the captain of a
ship called the _Typhoon Dancer_. I remember her last voyage, to a place
called Wudamund. I remember her meeting two passengers on her ship and
falling deeply in love with them.
I remember her taking part in the creation of an object, a
talisman, that bound her and her two lovers together. And I remember
that, just as that talisman was destroyed by lightning, she learned that
another had bound himself to the original three.
I also remember being someone different, standing on a castle wall
with the light of two moons shining down on me. I remember looking at
the face of the one I loved, Nikorah, outshining both of those moons. I
was Bralidan, the son of Bralevant who was duke of that place where the
moons shone down.
I remember Nikorah and I discovering that these two strange
fragments of stone that we each possessed fit together and actually
became one larger stone fragment. Looking back, as I sit beneath the
shade of my chestnut tree, I know that those fragments were part of that
talisman that got destroyed by lightning. And I remember spending a life
of joy out on the grassy plains with Nikorah, living in a strange, round
kind of tent that had no poles holding it up.
I remember being Eilonvil, living in a manor keep in a different
kind of kingdom. I remember losing a dear love, and having my mourning
broken by a bard named Bonavec. I remember how I responded to him,
almost forgetting my dear lost Derokein. And I remember how I caught the
treacherous bard stealing the family heirloom -- another of the talisman
fragments -- from the manor's mantelpiece, and killing me for that
discovery.
I remember being Elianijit, the stage manager of a traveling group
of actors known as Torenda's Troupe. I remember being diverted in a very
strange manner and finding one of those talisman fragments. I remember
the arrival of a young woman who was looking for aid against a threat
happening at her philosophical sanctuary. She also told us of another
talisman fragment at that school.
I recall that we managed to scare off the person attacking the
school with illusions and stage craft, and were rewarded by being gifted
with that second talisman fragment. It joined itself to the one we had
found, completing a half-circle fragment. I remember more of that
troupe's travels, but none that were so exciting.
I remember other lives between and since, but the ship captain,
Eldinan, is the first one I recall. I remember being poor and rich,
common and royal. I remember staying in one place for a lifetime, and I
remember traveling constantly. I remember being, doing, living so many
different things that it is sometimes almost enough to drive me mad. And
I remember that none of the people I have been in the past knew about
their previous selves: I am alone in remembering everything.
In the beginning, once I had recovered as much as I was going to
from the accident, I tried to tell my family and anyone else who would
listen about the things I remembered. Some thought me a good
storyteller. Some thought me possessed or mad or both. After I was
threatened with being sent away to the madhouse in Magnus, I learned to
keep my stories, my memories, to myself.
The memories weren't all, though. I knew other things as well. Not
just who I had been in past lives, but things about myself in this life.
I have a sense of three other people out there in the world, moving
around like they are searching for something. Perhaps the same something
that I wish I was out there searching for: the fragments of that lost
talisman.
And I know, in general, where those three remaining fragments are.
One is to the north, one is far to the southwest, and the last one is to
the east. None are in the possession of any of the searchers. From the
general pattern and direction of their movements, I don't think that the
searchers are going to find any of the fragments any time soon. If only
I were free to leave and travel like I've always wanted to, I could
bring this endless search to a close in my lifetime ...
One of the three people I can sense, one of the other three people
that has been bound up with the talisman we created all those years ago,
is walking across the crossroads square right now. She arrived last
night and is staying in the Buzzard's Roost. I could feel her over there
all morning, moving around once she got up. And now she's crossing the
square, probably coming in here.
I'll bet she wants me to come with her, to help her find the other
fragments and the rest of us as well. And if not for the accident, I
would be off like a rock out of a trebuchet, business or not. But I
can't go, I can't help her, and I can't let her know how much help she
is losing.
The woman led her horse through the gate of the smithy, and
approached the man sitting under the tree at the back of the courtyard.
Her horse needed new shoes, and so it was convenient that there was a
blacksmith's right across from the inn, but there was some other reason
she found herself drawn to this place. There was something special about
this smithy; something special was waiting to happen when she walked
through that gate.
She looked at the man sitting under the tree. He was on the good
looking side of plain, with regular features in his rather pale face.
His hair was brown, and his eyes, when she got close enough, were grey.
There was something about him that tugged at her, like she should know
him from somewhere maybe. But there was something else, too. Something
... wrong, maybe? Something strange, anyway.
She decided to take care of her horse, and then see if she could
find out anything else about the man. "Excuse me, sir?" the woman began.
Ah, it's Nikkeus. Even as a female, I recognize him. He's as
handsome as ever, even in a woman's body. That blonde hair, those
amazingly green eyes, and, of course, that nose! I wonder what
instrument she plays. She doesn't look like a minstrel or bard, but then
Nikkeus *was* a warrior too. She looks so good in that leather jerkin
and those riding breeches. Oh, grace, if only ...
"I'm sorry, Nikkeus, or Nikorah, or whatever you're called this
time, but all I can do for you is shoe your horse. Forget about anything
else; it isn't going to happen in this lifetime. Even if I could give up
my business, I am in no fit state to travel, as you can see. Maybe next
lifetime, straight?
"Fentrisk! Business! There's a lady out here what needs a shoer!
"Horthol, Bhiss, it's time to come in!"
Nikoren could only stare as the seated man delivered his strange
speech. Then, when she wanted to ask him what he meant, he turned his
head and hollered out some names toward one side of the courtyard.
Two doors opened in that side of the courtyard, and three people
came out of them, all brawny and strong looking, even the woman. One man
came toward her, and the other two went to the seated man. While the one
who had come to her started asking how she wanted her horse shod, the
other two picked up some poles lying on the ground behind the grey-eyed
man and slipped them into rings on the sides of his chair. As they
positioned themselves in front of and behind him, between the poles,
Nikoren realized that they had just created a sedan chair.
Her supposition was borne out when the two of them bent forward,
grabbed the poles, and straightened, lifting the man and his chair off
of the ground. She could now clearly see that the man's left arm was
missing, as were both of his legs below the knee.
She stared after the entourage as they walked into the house.
Indeed, she thought, he was in no shape to travel, what with those
disabilities. But why had he felt it necessary to tell her so abruptly?
She hadn't been considering asking him along on her travels. Why had he
assumed she would?
Strange man, she summarized, and tried to put thoughts of him out
of her head. She looked back at the man in front of her -- Fentrisk? --
and said, "I'm sorry, but I was ... distracted there for a moment. Could
we begin again? I'm Nikoren, and my horse ..."
She got her horse his shoes, but she wasn't quite as successful at
keeping her thoughts away from the strange legless man at the smithy.
Not for a very, very long time.
========================================================================
Cat's Cry
by Carlo N. Samson
<macgyver@interaccess.com>
Firil 24, 1014
A cool spring breeze ruffled Kittara Ponterisso's long
chestnut-brown hair as she rode along the forest path. The late
afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees from her right, and her
horse's hooves left well-defined impressions in the soft, damp ground.
The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, and the air held an indefinable
freshness that hinted of warmer days to come. It had been this way ever
since the morning: an absolutely perfect day to be traveling. Now if
only she was traveling alone ...
"And do you know what the Comarrian said next?" a male voice asked.
Kittara glanced over at her companion, Reyakeen Sylk, who rode next
to her on a large gray stallion. Sylk was a tall man with dark blonde
hair, well-muscled arms, and a bothersome penchant for telling stories
that she had no interest in hearing. Still, out of politeness, Kittara
murmured, "Do tell."
"He said, 'Mine's bigger than that, and about twice as long!'" Sylk
laughed and slapped his thigh. "And when he pulled it out, well, none of
us could say anything -- he was right!"
"You all should have known better than to compare tobacco pipes
with a Comarrian," Kittara remarked.
"But we didn't know that's what he was. None of us saw his tattoo.
Well, not until later that night, when ..."
Kittara sighed inwardly and turned her attention away from Sylk's
story to the sound of the birds twittering in the trees that lined the
path. Even though the pair had been traveling for less than two days,
she was already growing tired of her partner's nattering.
The young woman glanced over at Sylk again, and a thought occurred
to her: perhaps his constant talk was an attempt to avoid a real
conversation, one in which he would have to tell her more about the
message that had them heading for Wachock, a town in the western portion
of Duchy Arvalia. Three days before, she and Sylk had been in Tench when
a courier had delivered a message to them from Lord Jastrik, the Duke of
Arvalia. Since Kittara could not read, Sylk had looked over the message
and told her that Duke Jastrik wanted to meet them in Wachock as soon as
possible. Kittara had pressed him for more details, but Sylk had
insisted that the message said nothing more.
Privately, though, Kittara suspected that he was not telling her
everything he knew. They had gotten to know each other fairly well in
the two years since Sylk had recruited her into the service of the duke,
and she felt that she could discern his moods with some accuracy.
Kittara waited until Sylk paused to take a breath, then asked, "So,
how long do we have?"
"Have for what?"
"For getting to Wachock. Do we have to be there by a certain day?"
Sylk shook his head. "Like I told you, Kit, as soon as possible."
"Of course," Kittara said with a sigh. Whatever Sylk knew, he was
guarding it well. Even getting him drunk didn't work; at the inn they
had stayed at the previous night, Sylk had kept himself to only three
ales and had shown no signs of inebriation.
A small dark shape suddenly burst out of the undergrowth and
scurried across the path in front of them. Startled, Kittara yanked hard
on the reins and brought her horse to an abrupt stop; Sylk's horse
whinnied in protest as he too jerked his mount to a halt.
"Did you see that?" the young woman asked, gazing at the spot where
the forest creature had vanished.
"Just a rat, or a squirrel," Sylk replied dismissively. "The woods
are full of them. I don't see why you had to stop -- one less wouldn't
make any difference."
Kittara didn't answer; instead, she slid off her horse and knelt at
the base of a tree on the right side of the path. The rodent's flight
had drawn her attention to a rectangular object on the ground,
half-obscured by dirt and dead leaves. She pushed back a strand of hair
and peered closely, realizing after a moment that she was looking at a
wooden sign with words painted on it. A hole near one edge indicated
that it had once been nailed to the tree, but had clearly fallen off
some time ago.
"What's that?" Sylk asked, still on his horse.
Kittara picked up the sign, brushed it off, then went over to him
and handed it up. "Can you read what it says?"
Sylk frowned and blew on the wooden slab. "Barely. I think it says,
'Beware of the ... cat ...'"
"Beware of the cat? Are you sure?"
"No, not just 'cat'. There's more to the word, but it's been worn
away. I can't read the rest." He tossed the sign aside into a stand of
thorn-bush.
"Hey!" Kittara glared at him, then got back on her horse. "That
sign was put there for a reason. Are you sure about what it said?"
Sylk frowned, and for a fleeting instant Kittara thought he was
going to tell her to 'learn how to read if you don't believe me', but
instead he answered, "Yes, that's all it said. Beware of the cat --
something." He started his horse forward, and Kittara did likewise.
A few menes later the forest gave way to a broad field, and the
path widened into a dirt road that led down to the edge of the Grenweir
river. Kittara squinted as the sunlight shone full upon her, and put a
hand to the side of her face to shade her eyes. On the other side of the
river was the village of Sharwald, where they would be staying that
night. Neither she nor Sylk had been there before, since they usually
traveled the southeast route to Hawksbridge on the Duke's business.
"I wonder," Kittara said, "if the sign was meant to say, 'Beware of
the catling'."
"Catling?" Sylk echoed.
Kittara nodded. "My grandmother used to tell me stories about a
giant cat that imitated the voice of a crying child, in order to lure
people close enough for it to catch and eat them. She told me never to
go into the woods alone, or else the catling would get me."
"Sounds like the stories my father used to tell me and my
brothers," said Sylk, "but about the catwyrm."
"A half cat, half worm?" Kittara chuckled. "Doesn't sound very
frightening."
"It's more like a half cheetar, half serpent, half dragon."
"Three halves?"
Sylk grinned. "That's how my father put it. He said that if we
stayed out after dark, the catwyrm would find us and bite our throats
out."
"A real cheetar would do the same."
"I know. But the catwyrm sounded much scarier!"
"You don't still believe in that anymore, do you?"
"Only if you still believe in the catling."
"I'm not a child anymore. Besides, I love cats."
Sylk snorted. "Useless creatures, if you ask me. Dogs, on the other
hand --"
"What do you mean, cats are useless?" Kittara broke in. "What have
you got against cats, anyway?"
"Nothing at all, save that they can't herd sheep, can't track game,
can't guard a house, can't --"
"Cats are certainly not useless," Kittara insisted. "They can hunt
mice --"
"When they have a mind to," Sylk countered. "I'd rather give that
job to a snake."
Kittara shook her head. "I had no idea you were a cat-hater."
"That's not true. After all, don't I like you, Kitty?"
The young woman rolled her eyes at her partner. "Don't call me
that!" she said as she smacked him soundly on the arm.
They crossed the wooden bridge that spanned the Grenweir river and
continued along the road that led into the village. Kittara caught sight
of a short, portly man waving frantically to them from the front porch
of a low rectangular building about a hundred paces from the bridge. She
pointed this out to her partner; as soon as Sylk looked in his
direction, the portly man vanished into the building.
"What do you think he wants?" Sylk wondered.
Kittara indicated a sign above the door that bore the images of a
sword, a hammer, and a horse saddle. "To sell us something, I think."
"You want to stop and ask him where the best tavern is?"
"Not really. Given the size of this place, I doubt there's more
than one."
"He looked to be a man who'd know his ale. Let's ask anyway."
They halted their horses in front of the wood-and-stone building,
then tied them to hitching posts near the entrance. Sylk stretched and
groaned as he dismounted; Kittara rubbed her backside as soon as her
feet hit the ground, but was careful not to let Sylk see her do it. She
knew that he still looked at her with more than a casual eye, even
though she had made it clear a long time ago that she was not interested
in sharing his bed.
As Sylk stepped onto the porch, Kittara briefly considered waiting
outside to watch the horses and their equipment, but a quick glance
around showed that the street was empty, save for a white cat peering at
her from around the corner of the building. She thought about going over
and trying to pet the cat, but it darted away before she had the chance.
Shrugging, she decided to follow her partner into the store, reasoning
that they would only be inside for less than a mene.
"Welcome and well met, good friends!" cried the portly man as they
entered. "I'm so pleased you stopped by!" Kittara saw that the man was
dressed in a simple green tunic and was standing behind a long counter
that stretched nearly the entire width of the room. The wall behind him
was arrayed with an eclectic variety of items such as weapons, lanterns,
ropes, wineskins, bows, and traveling cloaks. The counter itself was
covered with an untidy assortment of articles large and small: pitted
helmets, wooden cups, leather bags, lengths of iron chain, Stevenic
symbols, and the like.
"Yes, yes, well met," Sylk replied, leaning on the counter. "We
need to know where the best tavern or guesthouse is in this fine village
of yours."
"Ah, well, yes," said the portly man, his jovial expression
faltering. He cleared his throat, then pointed a finger at himself and
said, "I am Gwaddyn, purveyor of the fine merchandise you see here." He
spread his arms expansively. "I can provide you with much more than the
location of taverns. Now, I have done much traveling in my own time, and
know --"
"Listen," Sylk gruffly broke in, "we're more in need of a barkeep
than a trader. Should I repeat my question?"
Kittara let out a breath. "Sylk," she muttered, "let's just look
around on our own."
Her partner frowned, then pushed back from the counter, causing it
to shake slightly. A rusted gauntlet near the edge of the counter fell
off and crashed to the ground; Sylk shrugged and turned towards the
door.
"Wait! Wait!" Gwaddyn flung himself across the counter, scattering
items left and right, and tumbled to the ground on the other side. He
struggled to his feet and slammed the door shut just as Sylk began to
open it. Kittara suppressed a chuckle as the trader pressed himself back
against the door.
"No need to leave so soon," Gwaddyn said with a strained grin. "The
Greenhill Inn is where fine people like yourself and your lady should
stay. But as I was saying --"
"Hey, I'm not his lady!" Kittara protested.
"The Greenhill Inn," Sylk repeated. "Much thanks. Now, if you'll
let us go ..."
"But surely you must be in need of something for your journey! I
--"
"The only thing we need," Sylk snapped, "is to be on our way. We
have important business with Duke Jastrik in Wachock, and don't have
time for bargaining."
"Very well, very well!" Gwaddyn said forcefully. "If there is
nothing you want to buy, perhaps you have something to sell? I can make
very reasonable offers on --" He made a gurgling sound as Sylk pried him
away from the door and pushed him aside. The trader began sputtering
indignantly, and Kittara grimaced as spittle flew from the man's lips.
"Uh, thank you for your help," she said quickly, slipping through
the door and pulling it closed behind her. As she went to untie her
horse from the hitching post, she frowned at Sylk and said, "You didn't
have to be so damned rude, you know."
"I'm not very fond of shopkeepers who try to imprison their
customers," her partner replied dryly as he swung himself up into the
saddle.
Kittara shook her head as she mounted her own steed. "We're
representatives of Lord Jastrik, aren't we? How we act ultimately
reflects on him. I think you should apologize."
"His Grace does have a forgiving nature, so --"
"You know who I mean!" Kittara pointed in the direction of the
trader, who had not followed them outside but now stood watching them
from the open window, a sullen expression on his face.
"Fine." Sylk cleared his throat. "Sorry!" he called in a loud
voice. "Please accept my most earnest apologies!" Under his breath he
added, "For not buying your filthy rubbish."
"Sylk!" Kittara exclaimed. The blond man laughed and wheeled his
horse away.
The Greenhill Inn turned out to be located just around a curve in
the road, not more than a mene's walk from the trader's shop. The sign
above the door depicted a sort of green hump, obviously someone's
conception of the inn's name. A stoop-shouldered man in a worn leather
apron was shooing a pair of cats away from the doorstep with a broom; at
the pair's arrival, he stopped and greeted them.
"Are you the owner?" Kittara asked.
The man nodded, running a hand through his unkempt white hair.
"Hallrin's the name, good lady."
Sylk asked if any rooms were available; the innkeeper nodded again
and asked how long they would be staying.
"Just for the night," Sylk answered. "We'll be leaving at first
light tomorrow."
"Only one night?" Hallrin shook his head gravely. "Did you not see
the moon last evening?"
"It was nearly full. What about it?"
"The folk here know not to be on the road during the full moon's
time. It's not a good time."
"Why not?" asked Kittara. "Bandits?"
Hallrin shook his head again. "It's the catwyrm!"
Sylk smiled and shot a triumphant look at Kittara. "So there is one
around here, is there?" he said to the innkeeper.
"It would be wise for you both to stay for at least two nights.
Three would be even wiser." Hallrin's voice sunk lower. "The catwyrm
likes to prey upon travelers. Take my warning, if not for yourself then
for your lady's sake!"
"I am *not* his lady," Kittara muttered.
Sylk got off his horse and fished a Sovereign from his belt pouch.
"Two rooms for one night," he said, pressing the silver coin into the
innkeeper's hand. "But have someone see to the horses first."
Hallrin looked at the money, then shrugged and nodded. He pushed
open the door of the inn and stepped inside, loudly calling for someone
named "Runce."
Sylk and Kittara led their horses to the front of the inn's
adjacent stables. As they unpacked their traveling equipment Kittara
said, "I suppose you were right: the sign was warning about the catwyrm.
But something doesn't quite make sense ..."
"No, it's perfectly sensible. The longer we stay at the inn, the
more money he gets, right? I'd say he tells that catwyrm story to every
poor fool that comes by, full moon or not!"
Kittara tugged on her lower lip. "Then why was the sign so shabby?
If it were my swindle, I'd make sure to change the sign when it got worn
out like that."
Just then, a skinny youth appeared and said that Hallrin had told
him to take their horses into the stable. Sylk tossed the boy a coin and
instructed him to treat their mounts with the utmost respect. The two
travelers then picked up their belongings and went into the inn, where
Hallrin gave them rooms that were across the hall from each other.
Kittara agreed to Sylk's suggestion for a drink in the common room, then
closed her door. The room was small and contained only a single bed, a
chair, and a table upon which was a wash bowl and a pitcher of warm
water. She dropped her leather pack into a corner and stowed her
crossbow under the bed.
A little later, Kittara descended the stairs into the common room,
having rinsed the dust off her face and changed from her leather boots
to a pair of soft deerskin shoes. Most of the tables were occupied by
men who looked to be either farmers or tradesmen. She ignored the
obvious attempts at eye contact some of them made, and headed over to a
table near the bar where Sylk sat. He already had a mug in his hand, and
another mug was on the table in front of the empty chair across from
him.
"I've been thinking," Sylk said as Kittara sat down.
"I hope it wasn't too much of an effort."
"Not at all," he replied with a grin. "There could actually be
something to Hallrin's catwyrm story."
Kittara picked up her mug and took a pull of the dark liquid. It
was ale, but watered down somewhat. She figured that Sylk was drinking
the same, and that he had no intention of getting drunk this night.
"I thought you no longer believed in the catwyrm," she said, wiping
her lips with the back of her hand.
"There could be something hunting at night near the village. A
cheetar or a laska would be my guess."
"No no!" came a crusty voice from the table next to them. Kittara
turned and saw that it was a gray-haired man with a thick stubble of
beard who had spoken.
"Not a cheetar, not a laska!" the man continued. "Tis truly a
catwyrm!" The two other men at his table murmured and nodded in
agreement.
"Have you seen it, then?" Kittara asked.
"I've seen what it's done!" The gray-haired man proceeded to
describe how, one morning about a month before, he had been walking in
the forest south of the village when he had come across the corpse of a
man by the side of the path. "Cephas save me, 'twas a ghastly scene!" He
grimaced, took a quick gulp of his drink, and continued. "The fellow was
all clawed up, he was, through clothes and skin -- down to the bone, by
Stevene!" The man thumped the table for emphasis. "And his throat had a
great huge bite out of it. Nearly took off the whole farkin' head! A
ghastly scene, by Cephas."
"Niam's right," said another man at the table. "We all saw the poor
soul's remains!"
Sylk swallowed a mouthful of ale, then said, "Still sounds like a
cheetar to me."
The man called Niam shook his head vigorously. "All the cheetars,
all the laskas were driven out of the forest years ago. It can only be
the catwyrm!"
"Has anyone in this town," Sylk asked slowly, "actually laid eyes
on the beastie? Anyone?"
The three men muttered among themselves, then Niam said, "Young
Lansar, I think, saw it last." He turned and shouted toward the back of
the room; a moment later, a pale young man of about fifteen strode up to
Niam's table. Kittara smiled at the youth and beckoned him over to her;
he shyly returned her smile and went to stand next to her.
"Hello -- Lansar, is it?" Kittara said brightly. The youth nodded,
looking at his shoes.
"These men say that you saw the catwyrm, is that right?"
"Yes it is, ma'am," Lansar replied. Kittara paused and waited for
him to elaborate; after several moments, Niam said, "Tell her about it,
then, you laggard!"
The youth reddened and shot an angry look at Niam, then cleared his
throat. To Kittara he said, "Well, ma'am, it was late last summer, you
see? I was with my dog, and we were going out to this cave where me and
my friends sometimes go, and ..."
"What time of day was this?" Kittara asked.
"Oh -- afternoon, I think."
"And where was this cave?"
"A short ways from here. South. Not very far."
Kittara told him to continue, and Lansar said that when he and his
dog had arrived at the clearing where the cave was located, he had seen
something coming towards him through the tall grass. At first he had
thought it was a large snake; then his dog had started barking, at which
point the "snake" lifted its front part off the ground and spread a pair
of wings, like a bat's.
"When it did that, I--I just ran!" Lansar concluded, a slight
quaver in his voice.
"Do you remember anything else about it?" asked Kittara. "Its
color, how big it was, what it smelled like?"
The youth cast his eyes up at the ceiling. "Sort of gray, I think."
He was silent for a few moments longer, then shook his head. "That's
all, ma'am. Like I told you, as soon as I saw it, I ran."
Sylk heaved a sigh, then asked, "What about its head? Did it look
like a snake's head?"
Lansar paused, then replied, "No sir, not like a snake's."
"Then what *did* it look like?" Sylk prodded.
"Like ... well ... like a cat's."
"You see!" Niam interjected. To Lansar he said, "That's all, boy,
you can run off now."
Kittara thanked the youth before he retreated to the back of the
room to join his companions. By this time, though, other people had
drifted over to hear Lansar's story, and some of them now began relating
their own. Sylk and Kittara heard four other villagers tell of finding
bodies with bitten throats and claw marks, and two more reported seeing
the catwyrm for themselves.
"I'll tell you who's truly responsible," a middle-aged woman with
deep red hair said from behind Kittara's chair. "It's that nasty old Cat
Mistress!" The group of people around the tables muttered in agreement.
"Who is she?" Kittara asked.
"The widow Mourla," replied the woman. "Lives down the street from
here, in that smelly little cat-house of hers!" Laughter rippled through
the group. In answer to Kittara's question, Niam explained that Mourla
was an old woman who lived by herself and kept a large number of cats as
pets. Most people in the village believed that she had summoned the
catwyrm to do her bidding, and so they stayed away from her in order to
avoid crossing her and thus becoming the catwyrm's next victim.
Kittara had many questions, but did not want to appear as if she
disbelieved the story. She was an outsider, after all, and she knew that
it was not a good thing to appear disrespectful of the locals --
something that Sylk apparently didn't care about. Still, she decided to
ask, "You all have proof that Mourla summoned the catwyrm, don't you?"
"Proof?" Niam snorted. "Every cat that you see on the street
belongs to her! She's lived among them for years! And she goes walking
in the forest every day, but never once has she run up against the
catwyrm. That's proof enough for me!" The group murmured their assent.
"Proof indeed," agreed Kittara with a false smile. "Well, thank you
all for clearing the matter up for us." Niam nodded at her with an air
of satisfaction as the people around them dispersed.
"Go for a walk?" she said to Sylk.
Her partner paused in mid-sip of his third mug of ale. "Walk?" came
the muffled reply.
"Yes. Before going to sleep. Like we always do, remember?"
Sylk put down the mug and started to reply, but Kittara stared hard
at him and repeated, "Like we always do? Remember?"
"Well," Sylk said, "I was hoping for a hand or two of paquaratti,
actually."
"Paquaratti?" Niam turned and looked at him expectantly. Sylk began
to speak, but broke off as Kittara kicked him under the table.
"Ow! Never mind," Sylk said through gritted teeth. "Maybe another
time." He stood up, favoring his right leg, and glared at Kittara. "Yes,
let's take our walk now."
Once they were both outside, Kittara immediately apologized to her
partner.
"Fine," Sylk said tightly. "So why did you do that?"
"I want to talk to Mourla."
"The Cat Mistress?" Sylk sneered. "Ol's balls, what for?"
"Everyone seems to blame her for the catwyrm, or whatever has been
killing people around here. I just want to hear her side of things."
"This doesn't concern us, Kit. It's a matter for their mayor, or
their liege, but not us. We're only passing through."
Kittara tossed her head back. "What you really mean is that we
don't have the time to help them. What if we come back this way and find
that someone else has died? Will we have enough time then?"
Sylk gave a deep sigh. "Think about this, Kit: none of the people
from the village have been killed. You remember what they said? Everyone
who'd been found dead was a traveler, or at least a stranger. If there's
anyone you should be concerned about, it's us."
"The duke might say that the welfare and safety of his subjects
*are* our concern."
"We're in Narragan, not Arvalia, remember?"
Kittara fixed him with a defiant stare. "I'm going to talk to
Mourla. You can come along or not." She paused for a long moment, and
when he did not reply she turned and began walking quickly away.
"For Ol's sake, would you wait?" Sylk called when she had gotten
about ten paces.
Kittara stopped and turned to face him. "What?"
"You don't even know where she lives. Let me find out, straight?"
Kittara smiled slightly and nodded, secretly pleased. Sylk turned
to go back into the inn, but at that moment a boy emerged from the
stables -- the same boy who had earlier tended to their horses. She
watched as Sylk strode over to the boy and spoke to him in a voice too
low for her to hear. The youth nodded and replied equally softly,
pointing down the street. Sylk produced a pair of coins and spoke in a
firm tone. The boy shook his head, whereupon the blonde man let the
youth have the coins and sent him running off.
"So, what were you going to do?" Sylk asked as he joined her. "Walk
around until you heard a lot of purring?"
"Perhaps," Kittara replied with a small grin.
The stableboy had given Sylk the directions to Mourla's house, and
the two travelers had no difficulty finding it at the end of a street on
the east side of the village. It was a small, narrow house set a little
apart from the rest of the homes on the street, and what made the
dwelling unmistakably Mourla's was the number of cats that were either
lounging around on the weatherbeaten front porch or milling about in the
weed-choked yard.
"It's a cat house for sure, isn't it?" Sylk remarked. As they
approached the front door, most of the cats scattered. Sylk bent down to
pet an orange-furred cat that had not moved; before his hand got close
it stood up, arched its back and sidestepped away, all the while keeping
its eyes on him. "And they're all nice and friendly, too," he muttered
sourly.
Kittara knocked on the door, and when no response came she tried
again. "Hello? Goodlady Mourla?"
"Probably gone to sleep already," said Sylk.
"It's not quite sunset yet," Kittara answered. She was about to
knock again when she felt a touch on her right leg. Looking down, she
saw that a large white cat was rubbing up against her.
"Oh, aren't you the cute one!" she said, crouching down.
"Careful," Sylk warned. "They look like scratchers, the lot of
them."
Kittara ignored him and petted the white cat. It made no
resistance, and began purring as she sat down on the porch and lifted
the feline into her lap. "You're not going to scratch me, are you?" she
cooed, running her fingers through its soft fur.
Other cats started returning, and a small sandy-colored one even
put its front paws against Kittara's thigh, as if it wanted to join the
white cat in her lap.
"I suppose you really do love cats," Sylk said as he knocked on the
door again. When no response came, he continued, "Not surprising,
though. You are, after all, called ..."
Kittara shot him a frown. "Don't say it!"
"... Crossbow Kitty!" Sylk finished. At this, the white cat
squirmed out of Kittara's lap and dashed over to Sylk. It swiped at his
leg, and the blonde man cried out.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, hopping back a step. "It scratched me!"
Kittara suppressed a giggle as the white cat leaped into her lap again
and rolled onto its back.
"I always knew Whitely was a good judge of character!" came a dry,
cackly voice. Kittara looked up and saw a small gray-haired old woman
peering down at her from the doorway. The top half of the door was open,
while the bottom half remained shut.
"Are you Goodlady Mourla?" Kittara asked, picking up the white cat
and getting to her feet.
"That be me," the old woman replied. "Who are you, then?" She
shifted her gaze to Sylk, who had knelt to examine his leg. "And who is
he?"
Kittara introduced herself and her partner. Sylk stood up and said,
"It's just scratched, not bleeding. Fortunately." He looked pointedly at
the white cat as he said the last word.
"Whitely knows who's good to trust," Mourla said to Kittara. "And
who isn't." The old woman cast a sidelong glance at Sylk.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," Kittara said, "but I was just talking
to some people over at the inn, and --"
"You're not going to take my house are you?" Mourla blurted. "Or my
cats?"
"No, nothing like that," Kittara quickly reassured her.
"Good," Mourla replied with a curt nod. "Didn't think you were,
though."
"We're just on our way through here," Kittara explained, "but I
just need to ask if you know anything about the ..." She glanced at
Sylk, who merely shrugged. "The catwyrm."
Mourla's eyes narrowed. "What about it?"
Kittara paused, selecting her words carefully. "Well ... would you
know if it's true that a catwyrm really is the thing that's been killing
people around here?"
"How would I know if it's true? All I know is what I hear!" the old
woman replied harshly.
"Well," Kittara continued, "the people we've talked to said it's a
catwyrm, and that you're the one who summoned it to do these things."
At this, Mourla compressed her lips into a hard, thin line. After a
moment she emphatically spat on the ground, narrowly missing Kittara's
feet. "Who said this -- Niam? That bitch-face Radna? You must've
believed them, else you wouldn't be here!"
"No, I didn't believe them, actually." replied Kittara. Whitely,
the white cat, began to squirm restlessly in her arms; she changed the
way she held the animal, and it settled down.
"Why not? Old Widow Mourla with a house full of cats. Who better
than her to conjure a catwyrm, ha?" The old woman's expression was a
mixture of anger and sadness.
"Would you have any idea of what, or who, could account for what's
been happening?"
Mourla's demeanor suddenly became fearful. "Why ... why would I
know who's been conjuring the catwyrm?"
Sylk spoke up. "What about that sign in the forest?"
"What sign?" Mourla asked, her voice much softer.
"A wooden sign, in the forest across the river. It was by a tree
just before the forest ended," explained Kittara. "Sylk said that it
read 'Beware of the catwyrm'."
"Don't know nothing about no sign," Mourla said, her eyes darting
back and forth. "Don't know about no catwyrm!" She snatched the white
cat out of Kittara's arms and shut the top half of the door.
Sylk and Kittara looked at each other for a long moment, then
turned and strode away.
The setting sun cast long shadows as they walked back to the
Greenhill Inn. They both agreed that Mourla knew more about the catwyrm
stories than she let on, but not about why she was reluctant to speak.
"That was a clear waste of time," Sylk said. "You didn't really
expect her to just tell you everything you wanted to know, did you? What
reason would she have to trust a pair of strangers?"
"It seemed like she was afraid of something, or someone," mused
Kittara, ignoring her partner's complaints.
"She just wanted to be left alone -- with her cats."
"It's sad, though," murmured Kittara. "No one wants to have
anything to do with her, and if she has no family left, then the cats
truly would be her only friends."
"I can think of one cat that I'm glad to have as a friend," Sylk
said with a grin as he nudged her in the ribs.
Kittara gave him a playful shove. "Yes, but *this* cat hasn't been
domesticated!"
After a light supper at the inn, the two travelers went back to
their respective rooms. Kittara tried to sleep, but questions kept her
awake. Could the catwyrm actually exist? Were the attacks simply the
work of a forest cat that had returned to the area? Did Mourla know the
truth?
A sinister thought occurred to her: if none of the villagers were
victims, then it might be one of them doing the killings, and making the
deaths appear to have been done by an animal. But what about the people
who claimed to have seen the catwyrm? All of them had given the same
general description of the creature. Or could the whole village be
somehow involved?
But some of the things she had heard didn't quite fit. The
innkeeper had claimed that the catwyrm came out on the nights of the
full moon, yet the boy Lansar said he had seen it in the daytime. The
two other people who professed to have seen it also gave different times
of day for their encounters. Finally, why did the catwyrm only maul its
victims to death and leave them uneaten?
Kittara sighed and turned over on the bed. This was certainly a
mystery, but she wouldn't get the chance to investigate; Sylk was
adamant that they leave early the next morning. The thought of him
brought a faint chuckle to her lips as she recalled how Mourla's white
cat had scratched him after he had called her "Crossbow Kitty". Then
again, that was another oddity: she would have given Sylk a slap if she
hadn't been snuggling with the cat. It was almost as if Whitely had read
her mind!
As Kittara drifted off to sleep, she imagined winged cats gliding
over the village, and wondered if Sylk was dreaming about dogs.
Less than a bell after sunrise, the two travelers were on the road
that led south out of Sharwald. It wasn't long before they found
themselves in the forest once more, and after a bend in the road the
village was no longer visible. Kittara was in the middle of telling Sylk
her thoughts about the nature of the deaths and sightings when a flurry
of movement in the brush at the side of the forest road caused her to
stop in mid-sentence and halt her horse.
"What now?" Sylk huffed, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"I don't know," Kittara replied, sweeping her gaze back and forth
along the area where she had seen the movement. "There was something
... I didn't quite glimpse it, but ..."
"Rat, squirrel, rabbit or cat," Sylk said impatiently. "Take your
choice. Or maybe you do believe the stories, after all."
Kittara turned in the saddle to face him. "I know I saw something,
but it certainly wasn't the --"
"Then why'd you unpack your crossbow, eh?" Sylk indicated the
weapon that was strapped at the back of Kittara's saddle.
The young woman stared at him, momentarily speechless. Even though
she doubted the existence of a creature as unlikely as the catwyrm, she
knew that something -- or someone -- had to be behind the deaths the
villagers claimed to have seen, and she did not want to be caught
unprepared.
"Never mind," she finally said, turning sharply away from Sylk.
"We've got a long ways to go, don't we?" She urged her horse ahead.
They rode in silence for several menes. Kittara breathed in the
cool morning air to calm herself, but she couldn't shake a feeling of
unease. Was it frustration at leaving the village without finding out
the truth, or was it merely Sylk's irritating manner? She gazed at the
road ahead without really seeing it as she contemplated this thought;
suddenly, she looked back and realized that Sylk was no longer following
her. She saw that he had stopped about a hundred paces behind and gotten
off his horse, and was now disappearing into the trees. Muttering a
curse, she turned her horse around and rode back.
Sylk's horse was tied to a tree, and when Kittara reached it she
leaped to the ground and hurriedly tied her own horse to the same tree.
She unstrapped her crossbow from the saddle and pulled a steel bolt from
a leather bag that hung off her sword belt. Calling Sylk's name, she
strode into the forest after her partner.
Since the trees were not yet in full leaf, Kittara was able to see
that Sylk was a good distance ahead of her. She risked a few moments to
load the bolt and cock the crossbow, and swore when she looked up and
could no longer see him. "Sylk! Where are you?" she shouted as she
dodged around the trees, heedless of the branches that scraped her face.
Her heart began to pound, less from the exertion than from an impending
sense of danger that she couldn't explain.
Less than a mene later she found herself at the lip of a large,
shallow depression in the ground. It was clear of trees and roughly
circular; a huge outcropping of gray rock squatted at the opposite side.
The feeling of unease Kittara felt now turned into a powerful sense of
dread as she saw Sylk approaching a narrow cleft in the face of the
rock.
"Sylk!" she cried, stopping at the edge of the depression and
putting the crossbow to her shoulder.
Her partner paused and turned. "What's the matter?"
"Why did you stop here? What are you looking for?" Kittara called
back.
"Put that down," Sylk replied, frowning. "You planning to shoot
me?"
Kittara lowered the crossbow slightly. "Come back here and tell me
what you're doing!"
"I heard someone crying -- sounded like a child. I got this strange
feeling ..." Sylk shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
"He could be in this cave, so come help me look."
A cold knot began forming in Kittara's gut as she recalled the
stories of the catling and how it used a child's crying as a lure. The
knot tightened as it dawned on her that this must be the cave where the
boy Lansar said that he had encountered the catwyrm. She desperately
wanted to run to Sylk and pull him away, but knew that wouldn't work.
She had to convince him to leave on his own.
"Why -- why didn't you tell me that?" she asked, her mind racing
for something better to say.
"I did! You ignored me." Sylk shrugged and started to turn back
toward the rock.
"Wait!" Kittara called. "What's a child doing out here by itself,
at this time of day? Think about it, Sylk!"
The blond man stopped and furrowed his brow. Kittara held her
breath, all the while keeping a close watch on the area around him.
Something was here, she was certain. Beyond the trees, maybe, or in the
grass? She shot a look at the top of the outcropping; there were a few
small trees scattered atop it, but nothing else that she could see.
"Kittara," Sylk finally said, starting to walk towards her, "why do
you look so scared?"
"I didn't know where you were," she replied with forced calm,
mentally screaming at him to move faster. She looked past him to the
cave entrance, straining to see if anything could be hiding just inside.
Sylk smiled. "I'm glad that you care, but I don't think there's --"
A sudden movement at the top of the outcropping caused Kittara to
jerk the crossbow up into aiming position. Something was falling; at
first she thought it was a piece of rock, but as it fell the "rock"
unfolded a pair of wings and a tail, and began descending toward Sylk!
"Get down!" she yelled. The blond man flung himself to the ground
without looking back as Kittara fired the crossbow. The bolt struck a
wing, and the flying thing veered off to the left as it plummeted into
the trees that surrounded the hollow. Kittara dropped the crossbow and
quickly drew her sword. As she advanced toward her partner, she heard
the sound of breaking branches. A heartbeat later, something reared up
behind Sylk, and an image of it flashed into her mind the instant before
she acted: Tall as a man. Thick-bodied. A cheetar's head, forelegs, and
chest merged with the lower half of a giant snake. Dark gray fur. Scaly
hide. Veined, leathery wings. A pair of curved fangs. Big claws.
It had to be the catwyrm.
With her left hand, Kittara snatched a small knife from its sheath
in her boot and threw it at the creature. The catwyrm let out a piercing
scream as the knife sank into the flesh between its neck and right
shoulder. Its wings dropped, and it batted at the knife with its left
paw.
Sylk, meanwhile, had rolled away. He sprang to his feet and drew
his own sword. Kittara sidestepped to the left, while Sylk kept to the
opposite side. The catwyrm succeeded in knocking the knife away, then
lunged at Kittara, who slashed at its face as she leaped back. Sylk
stabbed his sword into the catwyrm's flank, causing the creature to
scream again. It spun around and dropped the front half of its body low
to the ground, supporting itself with its powerful forelegs. Sylk
whirled his sword in front of him and backed slowly toward the
outcropping. The catwyrm stalked toward him, taking swipes at the blade
but remaining out of reach.
Kittara's mouth was dry and her heart thudded in her chest. How
could just the two of them possibly kill this beast? She dashed forward
and hacked at the cut that Sylk had made on the catwyrm's flank. Blood
began spilling out of the gash, and the catwyrm roared in pain. It
turned to face her and tried to rear up, but instead flopped forward
with another cry. Kittara scrambled away, realizing that she must have
cut it deeply enough to make such a movement painful.
"Kit, run!" Sylk yelled, hurling himself at the catwyrm's back. He
gripped his sword with the blade pointing down, clearly intending to try
and stab it again, but an instant before he reached it the catwyrm
whipped its tail around and swept Sylk's feet out from under him. He
landed hard on his back, losing his sword as he fell.
"No!" Kittara shouted. The catwyrm growled, dug its claws in
to the
ground, then launched itself at her with surprising speed. She
desperately tried to throw herself out of the way, but its shoulder
managed to catch her in the ribs. The impact knocked her off her feet
and spun her face-down into the dirt.
Kittara lay motionless for a moment, her side hurting and her
breath gone. The sound of snapping twigs sent a bolt of fear through her
-- the catwyrm was coming back! She groped for her sword, found it, then
pushed herself to her knees. With a shock she saw that the creature was
rapidly slithering towards her; gripping her sword tightly, she braced
herself for a hard strike as soon as it got close enough, but to her
surprise it swerved away and instead sped toward Sylk, who was still
lying on the ground.
Kittara shot to her feet and started to race after it, but the
catwyrm was much closer and would be upon the blond man in moments. She
tripped on a half-buried stone and fell again; as she cursed and tried
to stand, a white blur flashed past her. She froze in amazement when she
realized that it was a white cat: Whitely!
The catwyrm had now reached Sylk and was about to rake him with its
claws when Whitely sprang upon the catwyrm's back and sank his teeth
into the creature's neck. The catwyrm turned its head sharply and
uttered a fierce hiss. It pawed the air and threw itself from side to
side, trying to dislodge Whitely. Kittara had regained her footing and
was about to run to help when more cats streamed out of the forest and
rushed to attack the catwyrm. The felines surrounded the creature and
started nipping, biting, and scratching at it.
The catwyrm gave another hiss as it faced its new attackers.
Whitely let go of the beast and was thrown aside. Kittara feared he was
hurt, but the white cat quickly recovered and joined the other cats in
harassing the catwyrm. Whitely darted close, struck at the creature's
underside, then dodged away before it could retaliate. The orange cat
that Sylk had tried to pet leaped up and locked his jaws onto the
catwyrm's throat, only to be flung away a moment later. Two more cats
were swept back by the creature's tail.
The air was filled with mewls, cries, and screeches. Kittara
started forward, intending to pull Sylk away from the feline melee, when
she heard someone shout her name. Looking back, she saw Mourla stumble
out of the forest, panting heavily. The old woman shakily pointed to the
outcropping and, after a heaving breath, said, "The cave! You must ...
go to the cave!"
"Why? What's in the cave?" Kittara snapped.
Mourla put both hands on her knees and drew another gasping breath.
"To kill the catwyrm ... find him in the cave! Hurry!"
Some instinct told Kittara to obey the old woman, but she couldn't
just leave Sylk lying defenseless. Indecision gripped her, but after a
glance at Mourla she made her choice. With a quick nod, Kittara ran to
the opening in the rock, avoiding the fight between the catwyrm and
Mourla's cats.
The cave entrance was dark, but she barely made out a faint
reflection of light on the walls. After seven paces the cave bent
slightly to the right, and the light grew brighter. Kittara paused, sank
quietly to one knee, and peered around the bend. After a few moments her
eyes adjusted, and she saw a man sitting on a rock in the center of a
small high-ceilinged chamber. A lantern on the ground by his side
provided enough illumination for her to see that it was Gwaddyn, the
trader that they had encountered the previous day. His eyes were closed
as he held a flat, round object tightly in both hands, and his mouth
worked slightly as if muttering to himself.
Kittara stood up and bounded into the chamber. "What are you
doing?" she shouted, striding over to Gwaddyn. "What is that?"
The trader's eyes popped open with a startled look. "Get--get back!
Go away!" he gibbered as Kittara grasped the object he held. Gwaddyn
fiercely resisted, but released it when the young woman leveled her
sword at his throat. He cried out as the point pricked his skin, and
tumbled backwards over the rock.
Kittara held the object up to her face, trying to see what it was.
It looked to be a ceramic amulet of some sort, with a faintly glowing
jewel embedded in the front. Curving around the jewel was an embossed
figure; she swore when she realized that it was an image of the catwyrm!
A hard blow to her shoulder made her stagger and nearly drop the
amulet. She glanced up just in time to see Gwaddyn drawing back a
gnarled wooden walking stick. Kittara twisted and ducked, barely
avoiding the second blow.
"Give it back! Give it back!" Gwaddyn screamed, swinging the stick
at her again. She easily dodged it and stepped back out of his reach.
"Are you controlling the catwyrm with this?" she demanded, waving
the amulet. "How do you stop it?"
"Not until he's dead," the trader said in a strangled voice. "Now
give it back, before I hurt you too!" He slammed the stick against the
sitting rock for emphasis.
Kittara dropped her sword. "Come over here and take it, then."
Gwaddyn raised the walking stick and moved around the rock. With an
angry cry he swung at her; she tossed the amulet onto the rock and
caught the stick with both hands as it descended. They struggled over it
for several heartbeats, then Kittara pulled the trader forward and drove
her knee hard into his crotch. Gwaddyn howled with agony and let go,
immediately clutching himself. Kittara brought the walking stick over
her head, then hammered it down onto the amulet with as much force as
she could. The jewel shattered and emitted a blaze of violet light,
causing her to drop the stick and throw her arms up in front of her
face.
"Oh gods, no!" she heard Gwaddyn shout, and felt him give her a
hard shove. She lost her balance, and as her back hit the ground she
heard the portly man let out a wild, terrible shriek that abruptly
ceased an instant later.
Breathing hard, Kittara got to her feet and felt her stomach turn.
Gwaddyn was slumped over the rock, his skin covered with deep red burns.
His clothing also appeared scorched. Kittara picked up the walking stick
and used it to prod the trader's body; when he failed to move, she bent
down and felt the man's neck. There was no pulse.
The young woman stood quietly for several moments, feeling a pang
of guilt at the trader's death even though she hadn't directly caused
it. She thought about trying to move his body to get a look at the
amulet, but decided not to. With a sigh, she picked up her sword and
made her way out of the cave.
She met Sylk and Mourla at the cave's mouth; they had been about to
enter when she emerged. The cats were scattered about the clearing, but
the catwyrm was nowhere to be seen.
"What happened in there?" Sylk asked. After Kittara told him, he
strode into the cave, telling her to wait outside with Mourla.
"Are you hurt?" the old woman asked, seeing Kittara rub her left
shoulder. Kittara assured her that it was nothing, then asked what had
transpired while she was dealing with Gwaddyn. Mourla described how her
cats had been fighting with the catwyrm when the creature suddenly
vanished, leaving the confused felines biting and swiping at nothing but
air. She had then gone over to Sylk and revived him; the blond man had
been knocked unconscious from his fall, but otherwise seemed unhurt.
At that moment Sylk returned, holding Gwaddyn's walking stick.
"He's dead," he said simply.
The three of them headed back to the village, Kittara and Mourla
riding the horses and each cradling a cat that had been injured in the
fight. The other cats trotted around them like a feline escort.
"Maybe this will teach you to be nicer to people," said Kittara.
"That lesson's been made clear," Sylk replied, looking up at her
with a rueful grin.
"And you also learned that cats aren't as useless as you said,
didn't you?"
"Yes, that too," Sylk admitted with a sigh. He then asked Mourla
how she knew that Gwaddyn was the one controlling the catwyrm. The old
woman replied that not long after the trader had settled in the village,
she had come across him conjuring the catwyrm with the amulet, whereupon
he had threatened to send the catwyrm after her if she told anyone.
Mourla then said that she had put up the sign to try and warn people
about the catwyrm, but was too afraid to do anything more.
"It's a good bet," Kittara remarked, "that Gwaddyn started the
rumor that you were the one in command of the catwyrm."
"'Course he did," Mourla said bitterly. "Who better to blame it on
than me? After he started killing folks, I tried to tell people, but
they wouldn't listen. Wouldn't believe me. I wanted to tell you two,
when you came asking me, but I was still afraid."
"How did you know that we were fighting with the catwyrm?" Kittara
asked.
"I didn't, but Whitely sure did!" Mourla replied, nodding at the
white cat that confidently sauntered in front of Kittara's horse. "I was
starting on my morning walk -- right along this road, but going the
other way -- and some of my kitties were with me. Then Whitely comes
running back, all screeching and wailing like his tail's on fire! Next
thing I see, he and the others go running off, so of course I had to
follow." She finished by saying that when she saw the catwyrm, she knew
that Gwaddyn had to be directing it from inside the cave.
Once they arrived back in the village, the three of them stopped at
Mourla's house, where the old woman took the injured cats inside.
"'Bye, Whitely," Kittara said softly, kneeling on the ground and
petting the white cat.
"I'll get you a kitten just like him, how about it?" said Sylk.
"That'll be hard to do," Mourla said, coming out of the house.
"I've never had one like him. Some days, I think he's got more sense
than anyone in the village!"
"That isn't usual, is it?" asked Sylk. "For cats to band together
like that?"
"Who said my cats were usual, hah?" Mourla replied with a wink.
Kittara stroked Whitely under the chin and said, "I wish I had time
to stay. I'd like to get to know them better."
"You come back whenever you'd like," the old woman said. With a
glance at Sylk she added, "Him too, I suppose!"
After thanking Mourla for her help, Kittara and Sylk rode away to
the Greenhill Inn and told Hallrin the truth about the catwyrm. The
innkeeper immediately sent two of his employees to the cave to verify
the story, and dispatched another one to fetch the local healer.
"We're not hurt, really," Sylk insisted, but Hallrin shook his
head.
"If what you say is true, if the catwyrm is truly dead, then you
can stay here as long as you need to!" the innkeeper declared.
"You're glad that it's dead, then?" Sylk asked.
"Oh, for certain -- it would soon have begun preying upon us!"
The healer arrived a couple of menes later. She applied a poultice
to Kittara's bruised shoulder and side, then examined her and Sylk for
other injuries. While she was doing so, Hallrin's employees returned.
They confirmed that the trader was dead, and produced the pieces of the
shattered amulet. Several villagers had tagged along and now peppered
Sylk and Kittara with questions about their battle with the catwyrm.
"So it was Gwaddyn all along," said the red-haired woman after
Kittara detailed her actions in the cave. "Well. I can't say that I'll
cry over his grave, I'll tell you that much." She gave a sniff of
contempt.
"Just so it's clear," Kittara said, "Mourla had nothing to do with
the catwyrm, so there's no reason to keep avoiding her."
A short while later the healer pronounced Sylk and Kittara fit to
travel. Hallrin offered them rooms in which to rest until the were ready
to leave; they agreed. The two travelers headed upstairs as the
villagers debated whether the catwyrm had been a magical creation of the
amulet, or whether the amulet had in fact summoned the catwyrm from
wherever it normally lived.
"There's something I need to tell you," Sylk said as he accompanied
Kittara into her room.
"I'm listening," she said, stretching out on the bed.
Sylk moved to the window and gazed outside for a long moment. He
then turned to Kittara and said, "About the message from His Grace. It
wasn't actually written by him."
Kittara sat up. "What do you mean? It wasn't Jastrik's writing?"
"I mean, it came from the Duke of Arvalia -- had the official seal
and all -- but Jastrik didn't write it. Glavenford did."
"His cousin?" Kittara frowned. "But why? I know he's next in line
to be duke ..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide.
"It doesn't necessarily mean what you're thinking," Sylk said,
moving to sit on the bed next to her. "Glavenford would assume the
duties if Jastrik wasn't able to, for whatever reason."
"So why would Glavenford want to meet us in Wachock, instead of
Hawksbridge? And why didn't you tell me this before?"
"First, I don't know. Second, I didn't want you to be worried."
"I thought you knew me better than that."
"I'm sorry. I needed time to think." He gently squeezed her hand.
"Don't keep these things from me," Kittara said with a frown,
pulling her hand away. "Or don't you trust me anymore?"
"It's not that," Sylk replied. "But if Glavenford tells us what I
think he's going to tell us, then there may not be anyone either of us
can trust anymore."
They looked at each other in silence for a long time. Finally Sylk
said, "Did you notice that there were no dogs around?"
========================================================================
