by Tad Williams
“Ah, little one, I followed your special light as Irao Skystone followed the dawn-star into the trackless East,” sang Lord Tangaloor. “I only hope I have come in time.”
The air in the small place shimmered again, and Lord Firefoot seemed to grow to fill every crevice in the room. “I must needs settle some old accounts,” he said. “I have wandered many years, trapped in the prison of my own madness, while my brother nursed his corruption. He has called up powers that the earth was not meant to hold—as I did myself, upon a time. My reasons were better, but still it left me with a wracked shell, and my ka flown far away. Many perversions have been loosed by my brother Hearteater. I must try to put an end to his ways.” The presence seemed to shrink slightly. “Aahh, and my brother Whitewind must be avenged, too, or never again will his ka rest. Alas, that innocents such as you should be caught up in the doings of the Firstborn. Come now, young Tailchaser, what may I do for you—though naught I try will go far toward equaling my debt? Speak, for soon I must be gone.”
Stunned, Fritti sat for a moment in silence. When he spoke at last, he found himself unable to look up at the one before him.
“I wish my friends to escape safely—all the brave Folk who came here.”
The Firstborn was silent, as if staring out over a great distance. When he spoke, his voice was gentle.
“Little brother, many of those brave ones are gone; their kas have fled to the bosom of the Allmother. Even I cannot quicken them, else I would have saved mine own brother, who I loved. As for the fela and the youngling, well, I shall try to help, but at this moment they need your presence more than mine. I cannot explain, but it is so.”
Fritti jumped up and scrambled toward the way out, but Firefoot called him back with a laugh.
“It can wait but a moment more, I promise you. I did see something else, another desire that courses strongly in you. You seek someone, although you have lost your search. This search helped lead you to me, so it seems only right that I should aid you.”
Fritti felt as if he were falling into the sky-deep eyes ... a moment later he was staring wildly from wall to wall: the tiny underground chamber was empty. Then a voice came to him, treading his mind as effortlessly as Hearteater had, but nimbly ... and with respect.
“I have given you the knowledge to finish your quest. Would that I could give you more, but I shall have sore need of my resources very shortly. You will be in our thoughts, little brother.”
The presence was gone, and Fritti was completely alone.
Wondering, he remembered the Clawguard who had been massing outside. When he cautiously lifted his head through the fissure, he discovered the tunnel to be as empty as if it had been undisturbed since the days of Harar. Only several piles of dust, gently sifting in an unexpected cool breeze, spoiled the absolute stillness.
Unable to remember how he had covered the distance or what paths he had followed, Tailchaser found himself mounting the curving path that circumscribed the cavern of the Scalding Flume. The great, boiling river roared as vigorously as ever, and seemed to be striking even higher on the stone walls that penned it. The path before him was masked in mist. Fritti started upward.
The river did in fact seem to be leaping to greater heights: the tendrils of water splashed up against the cavern’s massive ceiling, then fell back as hissing rain. Despite the poor visibility, Tailchaser moved quickly and surely along the pitted, eroded trail. He had been touched by something far beyond himself, and still felt the buoyant aftereffects.
The breeze changed direction, coming about into his whiskers, and in that instant he heard Pouncequick’s shrill squeal of fright and pain.
“Pouncequick, Roofshadow, I’m coming!” Fritti howled. Suddenly he was leaping along the narrow path, trusting to instincts that he knew he did not possess in his frenzied hurry to reach his friends. As he skidded around a bend in the narrow trail, scrabbling for footing above the booming, steaming waters, he saw his two companions ahead. Roofshadow was standing over a bleeding Pouncequick, struggling fiercely with a great dark creature twice her size——Scratchnail.
The black beast, striped and spotted with blood, turned his mad eyes toward Tailchaser’s approach. A snarling grin curled his wide face.
“Star-face. Star-face the Tailchaser! I’ll kill him someday! I will!” Scratchnail gave out a loud bark of laughter, and Roofshadow fell back, wounded and panting. Tailchaser bounded grimly forward as Scratchnail fell into a crouch, thick tail thrashing the air behind him. A rumble from the ceiling stones seemed to pass through the cavern.
Fritti pulled up short in the wide part of the path, dropping to a bow-backed hunch several jumps away from the Clawguard. The ominous rumble mounted once more above the clamor of the Flume.
“Come for me if you want me, Scratchnail,” Tailchaser said, putting as much scorn into his voice as he could muster. The Claw-beast grinned again, and his tail whipped. “Come for me—if you’re through fighting kittens, you stone-headed Garrin.” Scratchnail growled and stood, the short fur on his back rising up like black grass.
“Roofshadow!” Tailchaser cried, above the increasing tumult from above and below. “Take Pouncequick and keep moving!”
“He’s badly hurt, Tailchaser,” the fela called back. The Clawguard was moving sinuously down the path toward Fritti, death in each scarlet claw.
“All the more reason to get him to the surface!” Fritti called. “This is my fight. You’ve done what you can. Go on!”
Fritti saw Roofshadow and Pouncequick turn and move up the trail, the kitten stumbling badly. He turned his attention back to the creature before him.
They faced each other—the small orange cat with the white star; the dark, blood-nailed beast from the earth. Hips and tails wriggling, they stared for a long moment. The Clawguard sprang, and there was another great noise from above. In the instant before contact, Fritti saw showers of small stones come pattering down—then Scratchnail was on him.
Biting and kicking, they rolled over on the narrow causeway, the dark beast’s low snarls matched in intensity by Tailchaser’s own maddened yowling. They gouged and snapped, then broke apart, walking a constrained circle on their tiny ledge, death-instincts drawing them slowly nearer each other until, leaping, they closed again.
The ritual was repeated over and over. The superior size of Scratchnail was wearing away Fritti’s failing strength, but the smaller cat would not let up. They struggled and bit, fell apart, then fell together once more. Both cats moved with the anguished slowness of dark, blind creatures on the bottom of the Bigwater, blind things thrashing in the mud.
Finally, Fritti was overborne, pushed down on the edge of the pathway. His head hung limply, a dizzying drop above the rolling waters. The cavern now reverberated to a ceaseless pounding from the very stones of the roof, as if giant shapes danced above their heads.
Fritti lay motionless. An arching jet of burning-hot liquid shot up past his face. Scratchnail buried his teeth in Tailchaser’s nape, gripping tight on the spine. Fritti could feel the mighty jaws closing ... closing ... and then the pressure stopped.
The Clawguard had released his hold. He was staring down at Fritti, squat paws on the smaller cat’s chest. Something in Scratchnail’s eyes changed, and they lost focus.
“Star-face?” he said questioningly. His look of mad hatred seemed to change, to shift into something like fear. “It really is you, star-face?” He seemed to be recognizing Fritti for the first time, as if he had been fighting spirits, shadows that suddenly had become real. Scratchnail’s expression began a slow twisting back into hatred.
“You have destroyed me, you little sun-rat,” he snarled. The Clawguard swiveled his head from side to side in confusion, looking up into the farthest reaches of the cavern.
“What has happened?” he screamed. “What has happened to my ...”
A hideous, grinding roar, and then a great wave of gray rock passed before Fritti’s eyes, obliterating Scratchnail from his sight. Then this
too was gone; suddenly, Tailchaser was alone on the ledge. Painfully turning his head, he saw the last of the sliding rocks careen down the sloping stone wall below him and, with a great splash, disappear into the swollen river. Of Scratchnail there was not a trace.
Fritti pulled himself upright and clambered laboriously over the broken remains of the avalanche, then went limping up the winding path. The cavern was shaking in earnest now; the water below leaped and danced in mighty spouts that climbed toward the cavern’s roof. The heat was oppressive: Tailchaser had to exercise all his resolve not to lie down where he was and not move again.
He reached a tunnel leading out. Behind him, the cavern of the Flume was threatening to shake itself to pieces. He numbly put one foot in front of the other and trudged on until he could walk no farther, then fell prone to the tunnel floor. He could dimly see what seemed by happy fancy to be a patch of sky. The tunnel walls, too, were quivering.
How funny, he thought distractedly. Everyone knows there is no sky below the ground... !
The last noise he heard was a rending crash from the cavern below. It sounded as if every tree in Ratleaf had fallen at the same time. Then the tunnel collapsed behind him.
30 CHAPTER
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed labyrinthical soul!
—John Donne
Spring was bursting and crawling, pushing forth irreverent scents and smells—the very ground beneath Tailchaser’s back was warm with activity and renewed life. Soon he would get up and stroll back to his nest, to his box on the porch of the M‘an-dwelling ... but for now he was content to sprawl on the grass. A breeze ruffled up his fur. He waved his legs carelessly in the air, enjoying the cooling effect. Eyes closed, a long day of Squeaker-dandling and tree-scuffing behind him, he felt as though he could lie this way forever.
The feathering wind brought a tiny squeak, faint as the gleeful cry of a vole finding vole-treasure deep within the earth. Deep, deep within the earth. Again the cry came—louder, now—and Fritti thought he heard his name. Why would anyone want to disturb him? He tried to recapture his pleasant reverie, but the imploring voice became more insistent. The breeze increased, singing past his whiskers and ears. Why should his perfect day be spoiled? It sounded like Hushpad, or Roofshadow: felas were all alike, treating you like an old stoat until they needed you, then following you around and yowling as if they’d hurt themselves. Ever since he had brought Hushpad back from ... from ... where had he found her? It hadn’t been more than an Eye ago, since ...
“Tailchaser!” That cry again. His brow furrowed, but he would not condescend to open his eyes. Well ... maybe just to take one quick look ...
Why couldn’t he see anything? Why was it all black?
The voice cried out again, sounding as though it were disappearing down a long, dark tunnel ... or as if he were falling away himself ... into the darkness ...
The light! Where was the light?
Somebody—or something—was licking his face. A harsh, insistent tongue rasped across the sorest parts of his mask, but when he tried to pull his head away, that pain was worse. He lay back, resigned, and after a while little spots of light began to appear before his eyes. He could make no sense of these swirling, leaping points, but his nose finally distinguished a scent that was familiar. The floating specks began to coalesce; like tall grass pushed aside by a paw, the blackness slid away.
Roofshadow, with a look of fierce concentration, was washing his muzzle with her rough pink tongue. Fritti could not focus his eyes well—she was very close, and the effort was painful—but her smell confirmed it. He spoke her name, and was surprised when she did not react. He tried again, and this time she drew back and stared, then called out to someone he could not yet see: “He’s awake!!”
Fritti tried to greet her, to tell her how glad he was to see her in the fields of the living—if that was where he was—but before he could do more than make a sound, he slipped back into darkness again.
When he awoke later, Roofshadow had been joined by a large, shaggy red cat. It took him a long time to recognize Prince Fencewalker.
“What ... what ...” His voice was very weak. He swallowed. “What happened? Are we ... on top of the ground?”
Roofshadow leaned forward, green eyes warm. “Don’t try to talk,” she said soothingly. “You’re safe. Fencewalker brought you out.” Fritti felt a weak, irrational stab of jealousy.
“Where’s Pouncequick?” he asked.
“You’ll see him soon,” she said, and looked up at the Prince. Fencewalker beamed down with bluff good spirits.
“Worried about you. Didn’t think ... just worried, we were. What a row, what a row. Fabulous tussle.” The Prince seemed about to give Fritti a good-natured thump. Roofshadow moved between Fencewalker and his intended victim, who was already tiring.
“Just sleep, and let Meerclar mend,” she said. Tailchaser reluctantly let go his grip on wakefulness. So many questions ...
Fritti found healing in the dream-fields. He soon found that he could sit up, although it dizzied him. A determined self-inventory found no serious wounds. His numerous cuts had stopped bleeding, and Roofshadow’s patient ministrations had cleaned the worst of the matted blood from his short fur. His eyes were swollen—he had trouble opening them more than halfway—but generally he was in good condition.
Roofshadow did not want to answer his questions yet, and would sit patiently silent as he pressed her for information. Fencewalker dropped by frequently to see Tailchaser as he recuperated, but his roving temperament made it difficult for him to sit and talk long. His visits were hearty, but brief.
Fritti’s dreams had not been entirely wrong. The ground was warm. The distant reaches of Ratleaf Forest were capped in snow, a white mantle extending into the misty horizon, but the fringe of the forest in which Tailchaser had awakened was green and wet—the thin carpet of grass humid and damp, as though the snow had been suddenly melted away by a hot sun. Roofshadow said that all the area around the mound was that way, but that she thought the snow would return eventually. It was, after all, still the ragtag end of winter.
Days went by, and before long Fritti was up and walking. He and Roofshadow explored the prematurely green forest, padding together through the sodden false spring. Here and there a solitary flafa‘az could be heard singing bravely in the treetops.
Fritti still had not seen Pouncequick, but Roofshadow promised to take him soon. Pounce, too, was recovering, she said, and should not be excited.
Here and there in the unseasonal greenery the startled faces of other Folk would appear, gaunt and staring-eyed. Most of those who had made their way to freedom during the dying Hours of the mound had lingered only a short while, leaving to search for better hunting or to return to home grounds. No spirit of fellowship seemed to tie these survivors: they drifted off one by one as they became strong enough to travel. Only the sick—and the dying—remained with Fencewalker’s band of hunters, and soon even the Prince would lead most of his party back to the wooded bowers of Firsthome. A small guard would be mounted to stay and keep watch on the site.
Seeing these survivors, Fritti wondered aloud about the fate of the uncounted multitudes, masters and slaves, who had not escaped. Hearing this, Roofshadow told Fritti as best she could of the final Hour in Vastnir.
“When we left you with that ... beast,” she said, “I never expected to see you again. It seemed as if the world was coming to pieces.” She walked silently for a while. Fritti tried to say something reassuring, but she stopped him with a curiously stern look.
“Pounce was half dead, bleeding. I pulled him up the last tunnel by the neck. Things were falling, crashing ... it sounded like giant creatures fighting. Finally, we made it out of that place, out into the valley; it was covered with snow. There were others there, too, milling and crying. We were like lost kas, stumbling, falling in the snow. The ground was shaking.”
Their walk had taken them out to the rim of Ratleaf. Before them stretched the r
ising plain, slick with melted snow, droplets gleaming on the leaves of stunted vegetation. Roofshadow led on, continuing her story.
“I saw someone dashing about, making loud noises and leading Folk to and fro ... it was Fencewalker, of course. I caught up with him and told him what had happened. I’m afraid I was rather ears-back at that point, but the Prince understood. He said, ‘Tailchaser? Young Taitchaser?’—Fencewalker’s not so very old, but he acts as if he’d like to be. Anyway, he said: ‘Can’t have that, not young Tailchaser, must do something, by all means!’ You know how he talks. Well, he gathered up a few of the healthier Folk and I led them all back to the tunnel. I stayed with Pouncequick, whose ... who was very weak and sick.”
“They found you half buried under dirt and rocks, and carried you out just before the rest of the place shook itself down. I didn’t know you were alive for a very long time. I hadn’t been able to bear waiting to find out.”
Fritti was stepping over a twisted root, and missed the expression on the gray fela’s face. Stopping for a moment to shake dry a sopping paw, he asked: “What do you mean when you say the place shook itself apart? I’m afraid I don’t remember the end very well.”
“I’m going to show you,” said Roofshadow.
They toiled awhile longer up the sloping plain, wrapped in thought. At last they reached the edge of the valley in which the mound had stood.
Where Vastnir had once pushed its brooding head up through the valley floor there was now a wide, shallow basin—the ground sunken as if beneath the tread of a league-wide paw. The soil was as black as the wing of a Krauka.
