The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Balkis awoke as the moon rose, feeling far better than she had before, though still lethargic. Seeing the brownie-woman, weaving pine needles and singing a charm, Balkis came fully alert.

  Looking up, the brownie-woman saw Balkis' open eyes and smiled. “Are you healed now, maiden?”

  Balkis was startled by the question. How had this wee one known her for human when she was in cat's guise?

  “The spirit of this grove saw you transform,” the brownie explained, as if Balkis had spoken aloud. “I am Lichi. Have you appetite?”

  The question raised a sudden gnawing hunger in Balkis, who nodded. Then, realizing there was no point in hiding her abilities when the brownie already knew she was human, Balkis said, “Most hungry.”

  The brownie frowned. “What speech is this?”

  Balkis had spoken in the tongue of Allustria, where she grew up, and she recognized the language the brownie spoke as very much like one she had learned while traveling with the Lord Wizard. (The thought of him still made her heart leap.) They had stayed a few weeks in a Parsi village, and Balkis had absorbed the language.

  She tried it now. “I am most hungry, kind spirit.”

  “Ah! Those words, I understand.” Lichi put aside her weaving and rose. “Come, then.”

  She led Balkis to a small hole under the roots of one of the stunted pines. Balkis sniffed and caught the scent of mouse as the brownie knelt and cupped her hands around her mouth to call down into the burrow's back door, making a dreadful ghostly noise. Seconds later a mouse shot out, straight into Balkis' claws. When she had finished the morsel, the brownie led her to another burrow, then another.

  As Balkis was licking her chops, the sprite asked, “Are you well enough to travel now?”

  “I think I am.” Balkis took a wobbly step but said gamely, “I shall walk as long as I may.”

  “Come, then.” Lichi turned away.

  It was a long walk for a cat whose strength had been depleted by injury. Lichi led the way, other Wee Folk appearing around Balkis as she followed. Several times, Balkis had to stop to rest, and the brownies stroked her, lending magical energy, and their strength revived her. She thanked them and rose to stumble on. During one of these rests she asked Lichi, “Am I in Hind or Persia?”

  “Neither,” Lichi said with a frown. “You have come into Bactria. Why would you think this was Persia?”

  “Because your language is akin to one I learned from some Parsi folk,” Balkis explained, “at least, close enough so that I can understand if you speak slowly, though there seem to be many words I do not know.”

  “Ah.” Lichi nodded. “Well, there were Persians who came riding here in conquest, long ago—then Greeks after them, though our mountaineers swallowed them up in time. Then the Persians came again to conquer, but the mountain folk swallowed them, too, over the years. They have left something of their language behind, though. Come, you must see some of our mountain folk.”

  Lichi led her to a farmstead, though Balkis found it amazing that a house, barn, and storage sheds had been built on such sharply sloping land. Even more surprising, the buildings stood straight, though they were of a style Balkis found most strange—circular and covered with earth, with grass growing on the roofs, yellow now, in winter. There were fenced enclosures near the outbuildings, but all were empty. “The cows, goats, and swine are closed in for the night,” Lichi explained, “but there are holes enough for a brownie, or a little cat. Come.”

  Balkis, tottering with weariness, followed as best she could. She fought down the urge to tell the little woman how queasy she was feeling, how weak, or that the headache had started pounding between her ears again.

  However, Lichi seemed to know. She led Balkis through a gap where two boards failed to join near the ground, into the warmth and earthy scents of a barn. “Only a little farther now, sweet kit,” she coaxed, and other brownies crowded close to encourage and lend energy by touches. They brought her near a sleeping cow, and Balkis had to fight the urge to shy away as she passed between its hooves. Lichi reached up to pull on a teat, and warm milk splashed in a puddle in front of Balkis. The delicious aroma filled her head and she stretched to lap it up eagerly.

  The cow came awake with a startled moo and turned to see who had so rudely awakened her, but Lichi soothed her with strokes on her hock. “There now, O Sweetest of Kine-kind, ye of beautiful eyes! Lend some little of thy milk to a poor starving kit, we beseech thee! Nay, kindest and most gentle of cattle, be not afrighted nor incensed, for such generosity to a poor injured creature will surely see thee reborn as a human babe when thou hast died!”

  Mollified more by the tone than the words, the cow turned back to her manger and took a mouthful of hay, suffering a few more pulls upon her teats with good grace. She hadn't really thought about reincarnation, of course. In fact, she hadn't thought about much of anything but food and warmth since her last calf had grown and gone away.

  Full of milk, Balkis suddenly felt the weight of her wounds and her long night's walk. She staggered; it took three brownies to hold her up and keep her moving while Lichi led the way again, saying urgently, “Not here, not here! A cow might step on you! The farmer and his sons might see you! Nay, come farther back, sweet kit, and higher, to hide!”

  So, with Lichi's gentle urging, Balkis moved up into the haymow, where Lichi tucked her in among the straw. Balkis' eyes fluttered closed, but Lichi said urgently, “The farmer has five sons. His wife died of a fever when the youngest was three years old, and without her to temper them, they have grown into a rough and coarse household indeed! Be sure you wait until they have done their chores and gone out to their day's work before you come to hunt spilled milk. Sleep now, pretty kit—sleep until night falls and the men have gone in to their suppers.” Then she stroked Balkis and crooned a lullaby that was in fact a spell, assuring that the maiden would indeed sleep.

  By nightfall Stegoman had reached the mountains that formed the southeast corner of Prester John's domain.

  “Sun's almost set,” Matt pointed out as they coasted through the air. “Time to camp.”

  “And hunt!' Stegoman said emphatically. “Flying enhances my appetite.”

  “Must be all that fresh air,” Matt opined. “That mountain-top off to the right looks nice and secure.”

  “That one that seems to be a cup among sawteeth? Aye, the sides are sheer. The mortal would be skilled indeed who could climb it.”

  “A skilled mountain climber or a skilled magician?”

  “Indeed so.” The dragon spiraled down, cupped air with his wings, then stretched his legs to touch rock, keeping his wings spread while Matt slid down. “I trust you have wood in your pack and water by your side?”

  “Yeah—charcoal and a waterskin. I thought we might be camping in some inhospitable places.” Matt took out his supplies as he spoke and began to lay a fire. “Even brought dried beef and hardtack.”

  Stegoman shuddered. “I will take my beef hot and fresh, thank you.”

  “If you can find it. If you can't, you should be able to manage dinner on a couple of bucks.”

  “Deer would be tasty,” Stegoman allowed, “but I fear I shall have to make do with mountain goats.”

  “Not very appetizing,” Matt sympathized. “As a meal, that's a sham.”

  “Or perhaps a chamois?” Stegoman licked his lips. “Well, we shall see what moves. Dine well, wizard.” He leaped up atop a tooth of rock, poised a moment, then plunged off. Matt held his breath, though he knew that the air was as natural to the dragon as to any bird. He let it out in a sigh as Stegoman rose over the peak, spiraling on a thermal, up and up to catch the last rays of the setting sun.

  Then something else caught those rays, something else winged and saurian. “Look out!' Matt shouted. “Natives!”

  Stegoman's head swiveled. He saw the other dragon and turned to face it, hovering and drawing breath, his belly expanding, ready to belch fire.

  The local was a little longer than Stegoman a
nd more slender, scales glinting where the sun rays touched it, reddish-brown where he was dark green. Furious, it cried, “Aroint thee, worm! How dare you come within my range?”

  “I only seek a night's rest on my route south,” Stegoman returned. “If you cannot afford me that, glitterscale, you are selfish indeed.”

  “Selfish or not, these chamois are mine, and you have no right to take them without the asking!”

  “Very well, then,” Stegoman said, irked. “May I partake of your mountain goats?”

  “No!” the other dragon snapped. “Snake, get thee hence!”

  “It would take many hens indeed to make a meal for a dragon.” Stegoman's impatience increased. “I would be loath to steal an ox from the farmers nearby.”

  “Do, and they shall come hunting me! How now, crocodile! Would you give all our kind infamy?”

  Stegoman said evenly, “Till now, I had never met a dragon who feared the human folk.”

  “Fear! Do you think I fear?” The red dragon shot closer, then danced, tilting from side to side a dozen yards from Stegoman's nose.

  The green dragon stared, catching his breath—bracing for attack.

  “If I fear not an overweening lizard such as yourself,” the red dragon demanded, “why should I fear mere soft and feeble folk?”

  “Then why should you care if they hunt you?” Stegoman asked reasonably.

  “Because there are so many of them,” the stranger answered, “and in their cowardice, they may set ambushes or even stake out poisoned steers.”

  “Hey, now!” Matt called in protest.

  The red dragon swung about and stared at Matt, eye gleaming, then said to Stegoman, “I had wondered why you settled, then flew again! How now, serpent—would you pollute my mountains with weak grubs who could never aspire so high by themselves?” Then the dragon dove at Matt.

  “Let my friend be!” Stegoman bellowed in real anger, and shot after.

  Delighted, the red dragon sheered off at the last second, forcing Stegoman to cup his wings and stall for fear of hitting Matt. However, that also brought him low enough to perch on a tooth of rock again, and the red dragon circled, then stooped on him, claws hooked to catch and tear.

  Stegoman stared up, fascinated.

  “Go!” Matt couldn't believe his friend was so careless in a fight.

  “Not yet… not yet… now!” Stegoman dove off the peak, and the red dragon had to cup wings and stall for fear of hitting the pointed rocks. A roar of frustration torched them, and Matt dove for cover. He realized Stegoman's tactic now— stalling Red so that he had time to soar high again, without fear of Red pouncing on him before he was in full flight.

  Red circled just below him, rising as Stegoman rose, opposite him as they circled higher and higher, each watching for an opening.

  A dragon fight was a rare sight, and one Matt didn't particularly care for; his friend might be hurt, and so might Red, who, aside from being touchy and overly territorial, could very well be as good a dragon as Stegoman. Matt dredged up an almost forgotten verse and started adapting.

  Red, with folded wings, plummeted twenty feet, then popped them open right under Stegoman. Flame roared up in a fountain. Stegoman hooted with pain as he sideslipped out of the path. Red panned fire-jet, but Stegoman shot upward and wheeled, and Red couldn't keep the fire focused on him. Then Stegoman dove head first, blasting a thirty-foot tongue of flame before him.

  Red howled as fire washed burnt umber scales, then darted aside and hovered nose-to-nose with the great green dragon, crying, “You would, would you? Have at thee, worm!” Fire blasted.

  So did Stegoman's, and fire fountained high where the two flames met, then winked out as the dragons realized they were wasting their breath. They circled one another, glaring into each other's eyes, fifty feet apart, slipping and sliding on currents of air.

  Matt noticed that it had been exclusively a firefight, no claws tearing skin or teeth rending hide. There were those pounces, but even he had seen them coming a mile away. He wondered if this was more a ritual than a fight.

  Either way, he didn't like it. Time for a breathing spell.

  “Through the sky he glided in.

  Red-scale said to armor-skin

  (Hear what slender Red-scale saith!)

  'Stranger, pause and take a breath'”

  Then Matt remembered that taking a breath wasn't necessarily a sign of peace between dragons and hurried on to the next verse.

  “Eye-to-eye and flame-to-flame,

  (Keep the measure, drake!)

  This shall end with none to blame.

  (At thy pleasure, snake!)

  Drop to perch and fold your wings.

  (Never chide thee, drake!)

  Accommodation both shall sing.

  (Peace betide thee, snake!)”

  Red frowned. “What is that prattling your grub makes?” “He is no grub, but a mortal man,” Stegoman retorted, “and if I know him, he speaks of truce.”

  “Perhaps he has some reason.” Red eyed Stegoman warily.

  “Shall we perch and talk?”

  “There is more profit in that than in wasting flame on hides that will not burn,” Stegoman allowed. He half folded his wings, then opened them with a boom as he landed on a split peak off to Mart's right. “My name is Stegoman.”

  Red dropped down to land on the other half of the mountain-top. “I hight Dimetrolas.”

  “Let there be peace between us, Dimetrolas. There need be naught else, for I shall be in your mountains only one night.”

  “Oh, that is ever your way, is it not?” Dimetrolas spat. “To come and go, to pass but a single night, then waft away on the wind and never return?”

  Stegoman's eyes flashed as nictating membranes slid over the eyeball, reflecting the setting sun, then withdrew—the dragon equivalent of a blink. “I am a wanderer, aye, and shall be so until I find a reason to stay and ward a mountain.”

  “How is it you have never found such a reason? Have you too much love for the feel of the wind under your wings?”

  Stegoman's jaw lolled open in a dragon grin. “Well I might, for I have had little enough of it.”

  “Little enough?” Dimetrolas eyed him narrowly. “Yet you must be a hundred years old at least, come into your maturity.”

  “I am no longer a hatchling,” Stegoman admitted—but since it hadn't been an insult, why was he so tense, crouching like a coiled spring?

  “You must have wandered for half your life.” Dimetrolas too crouched taut, and Matt readied another spell in case the two leaped at one another again.

  “I have spent many years among the human kind,” Stegoman said by way of explanation. “Their follies amuse me.”

  “Amuse! Are you not yet old enough to put amusements behind you? Have you a hatchling's mind in a dragon's body, that the work of life holds no appeal for you? Are you not grown, that you have no wish to make a home?”

  “Perhaps not,” Stegoman said quietly. “I am what I am, and pleased with it.”

  But Matt caught an undertone of sadness to his friend's speech, an echo of bitterness, and knew the dragon well enough to doubt the truth of his words.

  Dimetrolas, though, seemed to sense no such undercurrent.

  “Aye, I doubt not you are pleased with yourself, scion of the wild wind! Well, go your way! Be blown where you will, but when your fifth century comes upon you, be mindful of what you have missed.” With that, the red dragon dove off the peak.

  Matt almost called out in alarm, then caught himself, remembering that dragons were safer in the air than jets. Sure enough, Dimetrolas rose into sight again half a minute later, wings wide-spread, spiraling up to become only a slender curve gilded by sunset, coasting away to the south.

  Stegoman watched with a fixed gaze, and the tension in his body seemed to increase, if anything.

  Matt decided it was time for a distraction. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Handled like a true diplomat!”

  The
dragon's head turned slowly, and his eyes appeared to burn. Matt almost backed up a step in fright, but summoned nerve and held himself steady. Then Stegoman relaxed a little, and the burning dimmed to a glow. “A diplomat? An intransigent transient, rather!”

  “Okay, so you're a stubborn hobo! How about coming over here so I don't have to yell?”

  Stegoman gazed at him a moment, then dove from the peak, his wings booming open. He circled twice and landed beside Matt, who said, “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  “Friends are priceless,” Stegoman replied. “I have few enough, after all.”

  “And need all the friends you can get? Too bad Dimetrolas doesn't think that way.”

  “That may not be the case.” Stegoman gazed south where the other dragon was a glowing dot in the sky.

  Matt frowned at the cryptic comment, but asked, “What was that business about travel being 'ever your way'? Odd thing to say to someone you don't know.”

  “It would be,” said Stegoman, “if that ‘your’ meant me myself.”

  Matt frowned. “What other ‘your’ could it be?”

  “Males,” Stegoman said, with a volume of meaning packed into the single word. His gaze was still fixed on the south, his body still tense with leashed energy.

  Matt stared as a lot of things became clear, including the tenor of Dimetrolas' remarks, why she had pushed the issue to a fight, why that fight had seemed more a ritual than a battle, and most especially Stegoman's tension—he was highly stimulated, virtually bursting with adrenaline and hormones. “Oh,” Matt said. “Dimetrolas is female.”

  “A fact of which I was instantly aware,” Stegoman said dryly.

  “And, I take it, a rather pretty one?”

  “Absolutely beautiful,” Stegoman hissed, eyes burning again.