The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  In the distance an owl hooted. A few minutes later they heard the death-scream of some small animal.

  Anthony shuddered. “Perhaps we might do best to build a campfire against the gloom and walk this valley by day.”

  “Do you fear things you cannot see?” Balkis jibed.

  “Quite right,” Anthony affirmed. “I fear them far more than the things I can see.”

  His honesty disarmed Balkis, and she went onward feeling almost ashamed.

  They followed the riverbank under bare branches. Balkis shivered in the chill of the desert night and drew her cloak more firmly around her. She had to admit that the leafless trees and silent flow of dark water were unnerving, and reminded herself that they would not be so by day. In the distance something howled, and something else screamed. She shivered—only from the chill, she told herself.

  Then she began to hear a different sound.

  It was soft at first, soft and distant, but she knew it at once— the drums of war. They rattled in time to men's steps, and they were coming closer, from in front of her, and coming quickly.

  Anthony looked about desperately. “Where can we hide?”

  A trumpet blared in the distance. Across the valley another answered it, but with a different rhythm.

  “Why do they march at night?” Anthony cried.

  “If they meant to catch their enemy unaware, they have failed,” Balkis said.

  The sounds ceased to approach; they stayed more or less distant, but shouting broke out, and with it the clash of steel, then the screams of the dying.

  “Let us go out of this valley, and quickly!” Balkis turned toward the slope half a mile away. “I dislike the feel of this place.”

  “Flowing water seems less important now,” Anthony agreed, and turned with her.

  Across the meadow they fled by starlight, their eyes on the ground, watching for holes and rocks. The night wind sped no faster than they, nor the owl who sailed overhead, fleeing the shouting and the clamor.

  “Only a hundred yards more,” Anthony panted, and sure enough the ground was already rising toward the hillside before them. Then the ground dipped, and a soldier in leather armor rose up before them, circular shield barring their way, battle-axe already swinging down at them.

  Anthony shouted and threw himself against Balkis, knocking her out of the axe's path, but it struck at the base of Anthony's neck and cleaved straight through to his hip. Balkis screamed and threw herself at him, already catching up her gown to stanch the flow of blood before seeing it. Then she saw a spear-point emerge from her chest and stab on into Anthony, who was still intact, and through him and into the axe-wielder, who threw up his hands, mouth widening in a scream that sounded only faintly, echoing as though from a distance.

  “Down!” Anthony cried as they both struck the meadow grass—and saw the metal sandals step before them, felt a chill that froze them clear through, and knew that the other foot had trod down through them, then risen. Their owner stepped on past the companions, showing greaved shins, then a kilt of leather straps stiffened with plates of brass, then a brazen back-plate beneath jointed epaulets and a brass helmet with a horsehair crest above all.

  “It is a soldier of ancient Macedon,” Anthony exclaimed in wonder.

  “It is a ghost!” Balkis cried.

  Sure enough, the soldier was smoky gray, and they could see stars through him, no matter how dimly, as he wrenched his spear out of his fallen enemy, who faded into nothingness even as they watched. The victor tucked his spear-butt under his arm and marched on toward the center of the valley, but his boots made no sound, left no print in the grass. The tread of marching men was distant, echoing down the canyons of time with the shouts and clashing and trumpets and drums of a battle long past.

  “This is a haunted valley, and the ghosts can have it!” Anthony declared. “Come!”

  His arm helped Balkis to her feet, and together they fled up the hillside. Twice more warriors rose to block their paths, but they ran on, shivering at the chill as the ghostly battle-axes slid through them but not pausing for a second, their fear of the ghosts only lending wings to their feet.

  Finally they struggled up the last few feet of slope and collapsed on the level ground above, chilled to the bone, to the marrow, by the piercing of ghostly weapons. They gasped for breath and looked back the way they had come to make sure none of the phantoms had followed them. There were none near, but far away, in the center of the valley, ghost-lights swirled as a ragtag line of barbarians gave way foot by foot to the phalanx of Macedon. They hold their valley dearly, though—undisciplined or not, they were each of them valiant warriors, and two Macedonians died for each of them. But the phalanx clearly prevailed.

  The breeze blew them the sound of battle again, and Balkis shivered. “What ghosts are these who fight a battle long past, again and again every night?”

  “My ancestors,” Anthony said, voice grim and face hard.

  Balkis glanced at him and felt sympathy flow. To lessen the pain, she asked, “Which side?”

  “Both.” Anthony seemed shaken as he gazed down at the ghost-battle below. “I had thought the tale to be only someone's dream spoken aloud, nothing but some spinning of an after-dinner rhyme that held better than most—but I see now that it is more.”

  The tale clearly disturbed him as much as the ghosts he had just endured. “Tell me,” she urged.

  Anthony took a breath. “Long ago, hundreds of years, Alexander the Emperor sent a phalanx into the desert to take submission of each tribe who held a valley or oasis here. All surrendered without fight except the men of one valley—this, it would seem—and the phalanx marched into their land to conquer them. The defenders, though, were truly desert raiders to whom the valley was only one home of many; they had been hardened by the wasteland and by years and years of raiding caravans. They met the phalanx head-on, then sent outriders to the flanks, and though they lost, there were only a quarter of the Macedonians left alive.”

  “What of the raiders?” Balkis asked, her voice hushed.

  “They retreated into the mountains, and the Macedonians followed. There they jockeyed for position, neither willing to strike first unless they held the higher ground—and finally settled in place, watching one another across a ravine and occasionally raiding one another…”

  “And became neighbors?” Balkis asked, her eyes huge.

  “Their grandchildren did,” Anthony said. “The Macedonians would not budge, for they had their orders from Alexander and would not go back to him until the raiders submitted or every last soldier was dead. They married mountain women from their side of the chasm, while the raiders' wives came up to join them. Their children, though, married the children of the mountaineers on their side of the chasm.”

  “Who were kin to the soldiers' wives!” Balkis exclaimed.

  “They were indeed, so the grandchildren saw no reason to fight their cousins. They made peace, and a few of the great-grandchildren married one another—so by the time my father was born, we were so much a mixture of raider, soldier, and mountaineer that we know not to whom we should swear allegiance.”

  “And therefore govern yourselves, and resist all who would conquer you?” Balkis asked with a smile.

  “We do, though few care to try.” Anthony still gazed at the echoing battle below. “My folk are a stubborn and stiff-necked breed, and yield to death rather than to kings—as the raiders did when they fought this battle.”

  “Whereas the Macedonians we see here are bound by loyalty to Alexander's commands,” Balkis said softly, suddenly understanding, “and will therefore not willingly yield a single inch.”

  “Even so,” Anthony agreed. “Therefore they stand here, obedient to the emperor's will, and every night their ghosts fight the battle again.”

  “You do not mean that each side is convinced that if they refight it often enough, they will finally win!”

  “So it seems.” Anthony's mouth pulled into a hard smile, gaze stil
l on the ancient and current battle. “So the legend says. I had never thought it anything but an old wives' tale, a fable to make people realize they had to let go of the past and think of the future, but…”

  His voice trailed off. Balkis watched him a moment, then finished the sentence for him. “It is no fable, but truth.”

  “It would seem so,” Anthony said. “Alas! My poor ancestors! If their descendants marrying and becoming one people cannot end their fighting, what can?”

  “Nothing,” Balkis whispered, but she nonetheless wracked her brains as the two of them sat, spellbound and shivering, watching the ghosts slash and stab at one another until all had fallen. Even then she could think of no way to weave a spell to stop this ghostly carnage, and decided that this was a task for a priest, not a wizard.

  It seemed an age before the battle sounds died away. Then Anthony spoke, face somber. “It is done. Let us leave this place.”

  But Balkis clasped his hand, looking back at the valley floor. “What noise is that?”

  Anthony listened. It was soft at first, only a crunching here and there, but it grew in number and volume—ripping sounds, slurping and gulping, slobbering and grinding. He shuddered. “It is the carrion-eaters, come to clear away the ghost-flesh.”

  “But I see nothing!”

  “They, too, are ghosts,” Anthony said grimly, “and I never yet knew a vulture or jackal that did not hide from sight when it could.”

  Balkis buried her face in Anthony's tunic. “I dare not see their work being done!”

  “Nor I.” Anthony hid his face in her hair, and they sat shielding one another against the night, but the sounds of the gruesome banquet made them shiver until the horrid feast ended.

  Finally the sky lightened with false dawn; finally the obscene noises dwindled. Still they sat huddled together, and neither could have said when sitting became lying, when shuddering stilled and warmth and solace grew, for at last they slept in one another's arms.

  Balkis woke when the rays of the setting sun bathed her face. She sat up, blinking in confusion as she looked about, then remembered how she had come to this place of trees and grass in the middle of a desert, and shivered. She shook Anthony gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead! Wake up and tell me that last night's memories are only a nightmare.”

  “Hmmm? Wha … ? Nightmare?” Anthony sat up, blinking, and raised a hand to cover a yawn. “What nightmare is this? That I travel with you? I cry your pardon for the unpleasantness, but it is—”

  “No, dunderhead!” Balkis gave him a poke in the ribs. “Fresh wakened, and you jest with your first yawn!” But she smiled. “The phantom army, and the ghastly banquet! Tell me that those were only a dream!”

  “The battle!” Anthony came wide-awake. “No, I fear my ancestors were real.”

  “But their ghosts?”

  Anthony shrugged. “Are any ghosts real? Still, we did see them—it was no dream.”

  “No, I fear not” Balkis gazed off toward the valley.

  “Well, there is one way to tell,” Anthony said. “We have only to wait and listen. If we hear shouting and the clash of steel, we will know.”

  Balkis glanced at the desert beyond and thought of the empty miles stretching northward. “Should we take the time?”

  “An extra hour out of several months?” Anthony asked. “I think we can spare it.” He unstoppered the waterskin and took a drink, then frowned and shook it. “We should take time to climb down to the stream in any event—we do not wish to march dry.”

  Balkis shuddered at the thought.

  “Come, we need not stay longer than the first calling of trumpets,” Anthony said.

  “True,” Balkis admitted, and together they climbed down to fill their waterskins, but climbed well back up the hillside while there was still some sunset left—at least high on the slope. There they turned to look down into the valley, already deep in gloaming—and froze, staring.

  “What is that which moves so quickly?” Balkis asked.

  “It is the size of a fox,” Anthony offered.

  “No fox I've ever seen had a jet-black coat!”

  “No, nor was ever so shiny.” Anthony stiffened. “Tell me I should not be so surprised—we are only one valley away, and the ants must forage here now and again.”

  “Surely they must,” Balkis agreed, but neither of them believed it.

  They could not deny, though, that the creature they saw scuttling abut the valley floor was definitely a giant ant. As they watched, it cast about, probing the air with its antennae, north to east, east to south, south to west—and stopped, facing them. It lifted its head…

  “Be ready to run.” Anthony's hand tightened on hers.

  The ant shot forward—but a form rose from the ground before it, a form in leather armor, battle-axe swinging. The ant hesitated, then attacked the shape with fury—and went right on through. It halted in confusion, turning back—and saw a figure in brazen armor advancing on it with a spear. Instantly the ant charged, tearing through the apparition, then pausing in consternation, but only for a moment before another specter came running in its direction while a fourth came hurtling from the other direction. The ant whirled, tearing at the spectral warriors, about and about in a frantic dance of frustration, never able to come to grips with its foes.

  Anthony and Balkis watched in amazement as the ant ran to and fro upon the ancient battlefield and the twilight faded. When the stars came out and full darkness descended in the valley, the ant froze for a moment, then dove at the ground beneath it, tearing and hurling, digging itself a deep, deep burrow, as it always did at night.

  “It might bring up gold!” Anthony started down the hill.

  “And it might not!” Balkis caught his arm. “You might stay there all night waiting, until your ancestors drove you mad! Come, say a prayer of thanks to them for distracting the little monster, and let us flee while we can!”

  “Oh, very well!” Anthony grumbled. “But you will never be rich, Balkis, if this is how you treat your opportunities.”

  “You will quickly be dead, if this is how you treat yours,” Balkis retorted, and tugged at his arm. “Let us be gone from this place!”

  “Let us indeed.” Anthony tore his gaze away from the new anthill and turned to follow her up the slope. At the top, he looked back and stood gazing at the glowing battle in the bottom of the valley.

  Balkis observed the somber set of his face and said gently, “It was no mere nightmare after all.”

  “No, it was not.” Anthony turned his face to the desert, and the future. “Let us go, sweet Balkis. It is not good to become mired in the past.”

  By degrees the arid land became more green; thorn and scrub gave way to grass and shrub. They began to find trees, first wide apart and stunted, but closer and closer together as they went farther north, until they found themselves roaming through a savannah with streams only a little more than a day's travel apart. A week after they had left the valley of ghosts, the nights were no longer so chill nor the days so unbearably hot, and they dared to begin traveling by day. So they were walking beneath a mid-morning sun when they met the urgent traveler.

  They could tell he was in a hurry because he ran a hundred yards, then walked a hundred, and as he came toward them, alternately running and walking, Anthony took out his sling and fitted a stone to its cup. “What chases him, to make him run so?”

  “Whatever it is, he must rest and take nourishment, or it will catch him.” Balkis held up a hand as the man approached. “Stay, stranger, and break bread with us.”

  “You have bread?” The man skidded to a halt, and Balkis saw that he wore only a tunic, cloak, and sandals, with no pack and not even a wallet tied at his waist.

  “You have been long without food,” Anthony guessed, and took off his pack to dig out biscuit and dried meat. “Is the land so empty of game as that?”

  “I dare not tarry to hunt, let alone take time to roast my catch! Thank you, stranger, and bless
you!” The traveler all but snatched the food from Anthony's fingers and began to tear at it with his teeth.

  “What pursues you with such greed that you dare not stop to eat?” Balkis asked

  “Women, maiden.” The traveler shuddered at the memory. “Warrior women.”

  Balkis and Anthony exchanged a startled glance, then turned back to the traveler. “Tell us of them,” Balkis urged, “for we mean to go farther north. Dare we journey through their country?”

  “You may,” the traveler said, but jerked his head at Anthony. “You, however, dare only go there if you can run very quickly— or have far greater willpower than any man I've ever met!”

  “Why should I need willpower to travel?” Anthony asked, bewildered.

  “Because you will so lose yourself in pleasure that you will forget to count,” the stranger said. “You will overstay your nine days, as I have, and will have to flee for your life.”

  Balkis felt a frisson of alarm, a thrill of danger, but Anthony was intrigued. “What nine days? And what pleasure could so ensnare a man that he forgets to guard his life?”

  “Women,” the man said again, simply, “warrior women,” then added, “Without their armor, at play.”

  In Balkis, frisson turned to apprehension, but Anthony looked even more interested. “I would have thought that warriors' play was athletic contests.”

  “You could call it that” the traveler said with a sardonic smile, then took another mouthful and explained through his chewing, “You are about to enter the country of the Grand Feminie, young people. It extends for forty-two days'journey, and if you must go north, you must go through it, or take twice as long skirting it through the desert that lies to either side. It is a nation of warriors, female warriors, and no males are allowed to dwell within its boundaries, nor have been for hundreds of years.”

  “Hundreds of years?” Balkis frowned, puzzled. “Then where do new wairiors come from?”

  “From the brief stays that men are allowed.” Again, the stranger managed a sardonic smile between mouthfuls. “No male may stay with them more than nine days, during which time he may carouse and amuse himself as much as he wishes and with as many different women as he can. Thus do they conceive”