Tailchaser's Song (28 page)

When it was over he lay stunned and quivering on the icy earth beside the pit. A stabbing pain ebbed and surged behind his forehead. Finally Scratchnail spoke. His voice sounded subdued.

“Well, Great Master?”

The shape above the pit yawned, showing blackened teeth. A brief flare of light empurpled the scabby gray fur.

“This little bug is nothing. There are suggestions, yes—hints—but no power to speak of. It can do nothing. You say its companions are harmless?”

“This was the only one with even a trace of anything different, Lord, I swear it.”

“Well ...” There was a bored finality now in the liquid heaviness of the creature’s speech. “Take it away. Kill it, or put it to work digging tunnels—we do not care.”

The Claw chieftain dragged Fritti to a standing position, then forced him toward a doorway out of the cavern.

“Clawguard!” called the bloated thing. Scratchnail whirled and bobbed subserviently.

“Yes, Master of All?”

“Next time, do not so lightly disturb the meditations of Lord Hearteater.” The milky eyes glinted.

Bobbing and choking, Scratchnail hurried Tailchaser out of the Cavern of the Pit.

Stumbling and stupefied, Tailchaser was driven through the labyrinthine corridors of Vastnir. His captor dogged his footsteps and did not speak. Although he felt spirit-broken, still Fritti’s mind was awhirl with the thought of what he had seen.

Hearteater! Lord Hearteater of the Firstborn! Fritti had seen Grizraz Hearteater, the ancient enemy of the Folk. He had heard him speak! A fit of shivering wracked his weakened body as he thought of the huge, blind thing lolling in the cavern behind them.

He had to get word to Fencewalker and the others ... somehow. The Court of Harar must know of the danger... whatever good it might do. How could they defend themselves against such power, such terrible minions? Hundreds of the fierce Clawguard were in the main caverns alone—there was no way of knowing how many more lurked in this insect nest of tunnels and caves.

How can I do anything anyway?
he thought bitterly.
I’m under sentence of death.

His mind turned finally to Scratchnail, whose hot breath even now feathered his tail. Tailchaser dimly recalled that Scratchnail had been somehow embarrassed before the terrifying Hearteater. Surely the Clawguard leader would not suffer Fritti to live after that?

Limping, pondering, Tailchaser felt a gust of dry air ruffle his face-fur. He looked up. Here the tunnel was dark, almost lightless. Fritti could faintly see forms moving toward them in the shaft ahead.

With startling swiftness, Scratchnail reached his hook-taloned paw forward and slammed Tailchaser against the side of the passageway. For a moment he had to strain to catch his breath. As he wheezed helplessly he heard a strange rustling, a creaking as of old tree limbs, and suddenly the tunnel was full of whispering shadows.

Several dark shapes passed by. Tailchaser could faintly see tails and ears, but all seemed shadowy and indistinct. The air was full of choking dust and a cloying, sweet smell. Beside him Scratchnail lowered his head respectfully and averted his gaze. A faint sibilance, as of dry, powdery speech, fluttered in the air; then the strange shapes had passed up the corridor.

As Fritti regained his breath Scratchnail stared up the passageway with burning eyes.

“The Boneguard,” whispered the dark beast. “The Master’s closest servants.”

 

 

At the mouth of a cross-tunnel—indistinguishable by Fritti from the countless others they had passed—Scratchnail halted.

“I don’t know what your secret is,” he growled, heavy brows shadowing his eyes, “but I know there’s something there. I will not make the mistake of taking you before the Fat One again without knowing what it is, but I
will
find out. The Master can make mistakes, and I believe you are one of them.” The chief snorted angrily. “Whatever your little secret is, I will force it out of you. In the meantime, you can keep your miserable self occupied. Get in there.” Scratchnail extended a malformed paw, indicating the hole near Tailchaser.

Screwing up his courage—apparently he was to live a little while longer!—Fritti asked: “Where are my friends?”

“Filling the bellies of the Toothguard, if I don’t return soon. Keep your nose out. You’ll have enough to worry about just saving your own wretched pelt. Now, move!” The chief gave Fritti a fierce shove that sent him stumbling into the opening behind him. He lost his footing on the inclined gravel surface and found himself skidding and tumbling down into deeper darkness. As he rolled to a halt he heard Scratchnail’s voice scrape down to him: “I’ll be back to see you soon enough, never fear.” A coughing chuckle bounded down the shaft.

It took some moments for Tailchaser to accustom himself to the almost total absence of light. He was in a chamber of rock; he could see the dark forms of other cats huddled at the extremities of the chamber. The stone cavern walls sweated moisture, and the air was hot and damp.

Scores of emaciated, dead-eyed Folk lay about him. Most, sunk deep in misery, did not even look up at the new arrival. As Tailchaser slunk along the wall—hunting for another exit, or a place to lie down—some of the cats snarled weakly up at him, as if he were intruding on their territory, but it was a per functory sort of resistance. The thought of the Folk crammed into this tiny space, forced to live next to and on top of each other in sweltering heat, brought anger to Tailchaser’s spirit once more.

As he stepped across the sprawled bodies, Fritti was halted by the tones of a familiar voice. He scanned the faces and shapes of those around him, but saw no one he recognized. Neither could he summon a name to match the memory. He was about to continue across the cavern when his gaze touched on the cat who lay at his feet.

This one was shrunken, thin as a ferret. His sunken, bleary eyes stared hopelessly up at Fritti. It was this mumbling apparition whose voice had stopped him, and now Tailchaser sucked in a deep breath of surprise as recognition swept him: it was young Jumptall, one of the delegates from the Meeting Wall Clan to the Court. He looked on the verge of death!

“Jumptall!” said Fritti. “It’s me, Tailchaser! Do you remember me?” For a moment Jumptall looked on uncomprehendingly; then his eyes slowly focused.

“Tailchaser?” he mumbled. “Tailchaser from... home?” Fritti bobbed his head encouragingly. “Oh.” Jumptall closed his eyes, weakened, and was silent for a moment. When he opened them a spark of comprehension was there.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “But ... luckier if you’d died... ”

Jumptall’s eyes closed again; he refused to say any more.

Roofshadow crouched in the shelter of an overhanging rock, watching the flurrying snow. The chill air made her feel dizzy. She wanted desperately to get up; to run and keep running until she was out of this horrible forest—far away from the terrible, throbbing mound that was the source of all distress.

When they had been attacked by night, given only scant warning by the appearance of the crazed woolly cat, she had run with her friends—had run wildly. For all her seasons of hunting, she had been panicked, frenzied. At one point she had almost knocked down little Pouncequick in her overwhelming desire to escape. The shame of that still hurt her more than her wounds.

As they ran, something had seized her, knocking her from her paws—she had grappled with something large, but by scratching and twisting had managed to pull free. Bolting into the deep brush, she had lain hidden for some time, hearing the sound of flight and pursuit carrying on into the night. Not until the first rays of Spreading Light had she forced herself to crawl forth and look for a hiding place out of the cold.

She had been hurt by the thing that had grabbed her: her hind leg was very painful—she could not put her full weight on it, and had limped a long way over frosty ground before locating the windbreak. She had lain for two full nights and days, sick, feverish, too weak to go hunting.

Her companions were gone—captured, probably, or killed—and at this moment all she wanted to do was go far away: to disappear into the southern forests and never think of this terrible place ever again. But at the moment she could go nowhere. Her instincts told her to stay put. She needed to heal.

The thought of Tailchaser and Pouncequick had stirred her for a moment, and she lifted her head and scented the air. Then a shooting pain contorted her face, and she laid her chin back down on the cold earth and pulled her tail over her nose and eyes.

Deep underground, in the mazes of Vastnir, Fritti Tailchaser was learning a few of the secrets of the mound. Jumptall, his acquaintance from nesting days, was too weak to talk much, but with the help of a young cat named Pawgrip he had been able to explain some puzzling things to Fritti.

“... You see, the Clawguard are mostly just the bullyboys. They’re fierce enough, Harar knows,” said Pawgrip with a grimace, “but they don’t make any decisions. Even their chiefs don’t make many, I don’t suppose.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tailchaser.

“They can’t even hunt unless someone tells them to. Whiskers! No one even makes me‘mre in this ghastly ant heap unless somebody gives him permission.”

“And you say that there are others? Other creatures?” Fritti thought of the shadowy Boneguard and shook himself nervously.

“Hissblood and his Toothguard,” whispered Jumptall in a quavering voice. He coughed.

“They’re bad, sure enough,” assented Pawgrip. “They’re even uglier—and more
wrong,
if you know what I mean—than the Claws. They just seem to skulk around and keep everybody behaving. Even most of the Clawguard seem scared of them.”

Tailchaser was puzzled. “But where do they all come from? I’ve never seen or heard of any Folk like them.”

Jumptall shook his head, and Pawgrip answered. “No one has. No one knows. But you-know-who ...” Here the little cat lowered his voice and looked around. “You-know-who can do all kinds of things. Mate Folk and Growlers? Worse things than that have happened down here....” Pawgrip trailed off significantly. Unnerved by the reference to Hearteater, whose presence still loomed huge and frightening in his memory, Fritti got up and stretched. He walked to the entrance of their cell and looked up the shaft.

“But why the digging?” he wondered aloud. Behind him Jumptall raised himself up on his forepaws and swayed weakly.

“Cats weren’t meant to dig,” he said with surprising strength. “Killed Earpoint. Killed Streamhopper.” Jumptall shook his head sadly.

He looks more ancient than old Snifflick,
thought Fritti.
How did it happen? He is scarcely older than I am.

“Always digging they are... or rather,
we
are,” said Pawgrip. “Should think they’d have enough nasty tunnels by now.”

“Then why?” persisted Tailchaser.

“I don’t know,” admitted Pawgrip, “but if they keep digging like they have been, soon all the tunnels will come together. The whole world will fall into their holes.”

“Killed Streamhopper ...” muttered Jumptall sadly, “killing
me
...”

Here sighs and cries and wails coiled and recoiled on
the starless air, spilling my soul to tears. A confusion of
tongues and monstrous accents toiled in pain and anger.
Voices hoarse and shrill and sounds of blows ...tumult
and pandemonium that still whirl on the air....

—Dante
Alighieri

 

After a long passage of sleepless time for Fritti, several Clawguard came to the mouth of the prison cave and summoned the captives out to work. Whining and huffing, they scrambled one after another up the steep shaft. Fritti was surprised to see many of the Folk moving at all, let alone making the strenuous climb, but Pawgrip explained that no one was fed unless he could clamber out. Those who could no longer manage the ascent would remain in the small cavern until they died. Jumptall, with help from Tailchaser and Pawgrip, managed to struggle up the sloping entranceway. At the top they all made a hurried meal of insects and grubs, then the waiting Claws bullied them into a straggling line and led them through a seemingly endless succession of tunnels.

They were delivered over to Snoutscar, a heavy Claw whose fur clung patchy and sparse over his muscular body. Snoutscar sent the prisoners, in bands of three and four, down a tangle of short tunnels that led out from the central underground chamber. Tailchaser found himself paired with two older cats, both of them so weary and bedraggled that they could not muster energy for conversation.

As they reached the mouth of their designated tunnel, Fritti turned and asked, of no one in particular: “But what do we do?”. Snoutscar wheeled around, smacking Tailchaser with a flailing paw. Fritti crashed to the ground, and Snoutscar’s knobby face, crisscrossed with the whitened marks of many battles, loomed over him.