“I’ll have no sun-worms questioning me! Is that clear?” he raged. His body stank.
“Yes!” quailed Tailchaser, “I just didn’t understand!”
“You’ll dig is what you’ll do, and you’ll dig hard, sun burn you! And you’ll be finished when I say that you are. Do you see?” Fritti nodded his head miserably. “Good,” continued Snoutscar, “because I’ll have my eye on you from now on, and if I catch you shirking I’ll have your tongue out. Now dig!”
Fritti ran to rejoin his tunnelmates, who were cringing at the attention that had been turned in their direction. They gave Tailchaser reproachful looks as they all climbed down into the tunnel.
The rest of the day passed in damp, steamy misery: Tailchaser and his two companions scraped away at the end of a small tunnel, using the claws and feet that Meerclar had never intended for this kind of activity to scratch the hard, claylike soil. It was monotonous, spine-bending work. In such a confined place Fritti could find no comfortable position for extended digging, and before the day was half over he began to ache.
They paused briefly at midday. Fritti tried unsuccessfully to clean the packed earth from his sore paws and bleeding, lacerated pads. After what seemed like mere moments of rest they were ordered back into their tunnel.
As time wore on Fritti found himself wanting only to lie down and sleep: if they killed him, what difference would it make? It would happen sooner or later anyway. But when he had almost convinced himself the snarling head of Snoutscar would appear, blocking the entrance to the burrow, eyes glittering and mouth twisted. Tailchaser would redouble his efforts, digging rapidly and painfully long after the head had disappeared again.
The two older Folk at his side had mastered a relentless but unhurried pace; toward the end of the digging time Fritti finally began to imitate them. At last Snoutscar ordered them up from the tunnels. The paw- and bone-weary group shambled back to their prison hole, escorted by harrying Clawguard.
Half-tumbling down the incline, Tailchaser fell almost immediately into a deep, overwhelming sleep.
Deeper in the Catacombs, with hundreds of jumps of earth and rock between themselves and the sun, Pouncequick and Eatbugs had fared no better than Fritti.
As Tailchaser had been led unwillingly away, Longtooth and Bitefast had shoved and threatened the two remaining companions down into a cave several levels below. There they had been instructed to stay until Scratchnail should return and decide what to do with them. Unlike Fritti in the cave to which he was eventually led, Pouncequick and the old cat found themselves the sole inhabitants of their prison—but cracked and split bones strewn across the dark floor suggested that they were not the first inhabitants.
After what had seemed like Hours of solitude a soft snuffling sound broke the cavern’s silence. Certain that it was the Clawguard returning to kill them, Pouncequick stiffened himself against the far wall of the hole, ready to resist that final departure.
A strange, pale shape appeared in the entrance of their prison cave. Pouncequick’s immediate relief—this was obviously not the Claws—was quickly replaced by a disturbing chill—a strange feeling, like putting one’s nose into a nest of scurrying white termites. Eatbugs, in fitful sleep at the other end of the tiny grotto, pitched and quivered as the shape advanced into the chamber. Pouncequick strained to focus on the intruder.
What was wrong with its fur?
The creature had none. Cat-shaped, it was as hairless as a newborn kitten. At first, wildly, Pouncequick thought it must be some kind of monstrous infant—its eyes were sealed shut, as were the eyes of the Folk when they emerged from the womb. The thing turned toward Pouncequick, huge nostrils dilating. Then, in a high, whispering voice, it spoke.
“Ahhhhhhh. The little newcomer ... how nicccce of you to join usssssss.” Its speech was sibilant, like the voice of a hlizza. As it drew nearer Pouncequick could see that it had no eyes at all, just folds of skin below the brow. He pushed himself farther away, arching his back.
“Wh-what do y-you want with us?” quavered the kitten.
“Ohhh ... it knowsss the Higher Sssinging ...?” The thing gave a sinister giggle which turned to a yawn showing a mouthful of long, thin teeth, like ivory pine needles. “Well, little sssurface-Sssqueaker”—it grinned—“if you musst know, I have come to take you to Massster Hissssblood, who earnessstly des siress to meet a fassscinating young tom like your ssself.”
“H-H-H-Hissblood?” said Pouncequick, hiccoughing with fright.
“One of the great lordsss of the Toothguard, yesss. A very great power in the mound. Hisssblood yearnss to know what makess you and your companionsss ssso awfully interesting to Chief Ssscratchnail. You sssee, little worm-friend, Master Hisssblood and your Clawguard friend are, shall we ssay, friendly rivalsss.” Again the eyeless Toothguard revealed that thicket of gleaming teeth, and moved toward the terrified kitten, his furless skin bagging and wrinkling as he slouched closer.
“Nipslither!!” boomed a voice. “I expected your mole-nuzzling master would send you!”
The Toothguard leaped back, startled, large nostrils flaring. “Ssscratchnail!” he hissed. The Clawguard captain had come silently down the entranceway, and now blocked the only exit from the small cavern.
“Doesn’t your master think I know better than to trust those witless minions of mine? Ha!” Scratchnail barked a hoarse laugh.
“Don’t try to hinder me, you oaf!” whispered Nipslither. “I ssshall make you pay for it if you do.” His tone brought the fur up on Pouncequick’s back, but Scratchnail only emitted a rasp of disgust and lowered his head as the Toothguard began a slow, circling movement. Without warning Nipslither leaped forward, fangs bared, to be met by the rearing Clawguard. There was a great outrush of breath as they came together.
Crouched against the cold stone, Pouncequick watched wide-eyed as the two figures writhed and spat on the floor of the tiny cavern. In the darkness he could only glimpse the combat as it boiled from wall to wall—here a gleam of wicked teeth, there the spotted underbelly of Scratchnail, bared for a moment. The creatures’ two tails—one black, the other naked and coiling—twined about each other like maddened serpents.
There was a brief flurry of thumping noises, a yowl of pain, and then Scratchnail was lunging down to catch Nipslither in his heavy jaws, to grasp the hairless beast’s throat. The Clawguard chieftain’s mighty neck muscle jumped and pulsed—a short, cracking sound—and Scratchnail’s enemy sagged. The black beast dropped the body of the Toothguard. It lay, kicking feebly for a moment, then was still.
Scratchnail turned to the cowering Pouncequick. The Clawguard’s body was sleek with blood, but he seemed to give it no more notice than rainwater.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, little sun-rat!” he grated. “Hissblood would bring you to a world of sorrow. Now, you and the old dirt-fur”—he indicated Eatbugs, who had slept through everything—“you just do what you’re told. I’ll be back to check on you.” Scratchnail disappeared up the entranceway without a backward glance at Pouncequick or Eatbugs or the broken, eyeless thing on the cavern floor.
Many Hours later, Bitefast came to take Pouncequick out to dig. Bitefast’s face was swollen: Scratchnail’s punishment for laxity. Eatbugs could not be roused from sleep, and the limping Claw, in a foul temper, bit the old cat on his matted ear hard enough to draw blood. Eatbugs still did not wake, although the shallow rise and fall of his chest showed that he still lived. Irked by this failure—and perhaps fearful of more punishment—Bitefast treated little Pouncequick in brutal fashion as he forced him out to labor.
Pounce was assigned to a slave work gang, and spent long periods of hot, breathless time scrabbling at dirt tunnel walls with his small paws.
What seemed like days went by; Pouncequick’s world narrowed to a repetitive nightmare of digging, followed by solitude in the tiny cave at the end of the work period. Eatbugs remained in a stupor, not rising either to eat or pass me‘mre, and showing only occasional movement. Their Clawguard captors decided that he had given up his will to survive, and left him undisturbed in the small rock chamber when Pounce was harried forth to the excavations.
One day, while being led by Longtooth through the massive cavern that stood behind the Greater Gate of Vastnir, Pouncequick thought he saw Tailchaser. The cat who appeared to be his friend was with a large press gang of slave Folk, and appeared bound for one of the outer tunnels. Pouncequick called out excitedly, but if it was Tailchaser the distance was too great, for the cat with the white star on his forehead did not turn. Pouncequick received a stinging paw-slap across the muzzle from Longtooth, and was kept longer at his digging than usual.
When he was returned to his jail that night, Pouncequick began to seriously consider the fact that he might never see Tailchaser again. He had already lost Roofshadow. He saw no way that he could ever escape from the mound.
Up until that moment he had hoped, deep in his mind, that the whole experience was a bad dream, a phantom. But finally, Pouncequick realized, his eyes were open. He knew now where he was. He knew he would remain there until his death.
There was something curiously liberating about this knowledge. In a way, it was as if somewhere, deep inside, a part of him had been set free to run beneath the sky—leaving only his body behind.
For the first time since being taken by the Clawguard, he slept peacefully.
In the shadow of the trees at the edge of Ratleaf Forest, with the sun of Smaller Shadows dim and remote in the winter sky, Roofshadow looked out across the dim valley at the squat shape of the mound.
Although she was now well enough to travel—the twinge in her hind leg almost gone—she had felt impelled to come for one last look down on the agent of her unhappiness.
Vastnir crouched like a living thing, waiting for its proper moment to rise up and strike. She felt its pulse working in her stomach, nauseating her. Roofshadow wanted nothing more than to turn, now, and go. Somewhere, she knew, there were forests untainted by this Might—clean, deep forests. If the sickness spread, well, there were places it would not reach in her lifetime.
All through the dark afternoon, Roofshadow looked down upon the hated mound. When darkness came she found a hiding place and slept.
At first light she was staring down at Vastnir again. Thinking.
22
CHAPTER
I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
—john Milton
In his dream Tailchaser was standing at the very pinnacle of a tall needle of rock, hundreds of jumps above a misty forest. Looking down from his perch, he could hear the sounds of creatures hunting for him in the mists below—thin noises of speech that drifted up into his ears. It was cold on the rock; it seemed as if he had been on it forever. Below, the frozen green sea of forest stretched infinitely into the distance.
Although he knew he was in danger, Fritti felt no fear, but only a sense of the dull inevitable: soon the searchers would exhaust the hiding places in the woods below; inescapably their attention would turn to the spire. The burning eyes would gather at the bottom, then move upward....
Looking out into the swirling fogs that blurred the separation of earth and sky, Fritti saw an odd pattern in the vapors: a strange, spiraling nexus. With the speed and completeness natural to dreams it resolved itself into a white cat, spinning and spinning as it approached his eyrie. It was not the white cat of his Firsthome hallucination, though. As the revolving shape neared it became Eyeshimmer, Oel var‘iz of the First-walkers.
Hovering before Fritti, Eyeshimmer sang out in a high, keening voice: “Even the Garrin fears something ... even the Garrin fears ...”
Suddenly, a great wind blew up, setting the mists dancing. Eyeshimmer whirled off into the blackness. The wind swept through the trees, and around Tailchaser’s rock. He could hear sounds of fear and despair from the hunters below. Finally, there were only the rushing fogs, and the roaring of wind and lost voices....
Tailchaser awoke on the hot, moist floor of his prison, mired in the sleeping bodies of his fellow captives. He tried to hold on to the dream-shards that were even now melting away like frost in the sun.
Eyeshimmer. What
had
the Oel-var‘iz told him that day, so long ago? They had been taking leave from Quiverclaw and his walkers....
“ ... Everyone flees from the bear ...but sometimes the bear has bad dreams....” In the dream, Eyeshimmer had mentioned the Garrin, the bear, also—but what did it mean? Surely nothing about a real Garrin? “Everyone flees from the bear ...” Could it mean Hearteater? Bad dreams ... was there something that even Lord Hearteater feared? What?
Fritti’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Clawguard. In the ensuing confusion, the reluctant rising and the scramble up the entranceway to a meager breakfast, Tailchaser’s dream faded back into his mind, dissolved by cruel reality.
Aboveground an Eye had opened, shut, and opened again since Fritti had come to Vastnir Mound. The brutal routine, harsh punishments, and hideous surroundings had pounded most of the resistance from him. He rarely thought of his friends: his inability to help them or himself was as terrible as his imprisonment ; to dwell on it was more galling than to sink into the mud with all the others, to fight over grubs and squabble over a place to eat, and to keep an eye opened at all times for the Clawguard. Or the Toothguard. It was easier not to care; to live from moment to moment.
Once a muted hiss had run through the ranks of the tunnel slaves: “The Boneguard is coming!” The rustling shadows had come forward from a disused tunnel, and the light had seemed to dim. All of the other captive Folk had thrown themselves to the ground, their eyes tightly shut—even the Clawguard had looked nervous, their fur bristling. Fritti had felt a momentary urge to remain standing, to face up to whatever awful truth scared even their hulking captors, but as the strange voices and the cloying, spicy smell had wafted toward him his legs had become weak, and he, too, had sunk down—not looking up until Hearteater’s chosen were gone. Thus, in the large things and the small, little by little, Fritti’s spirit was broken to the mound.