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A Cat Prince Distinguishes Himself
A Panamindorah Story
By: Abigail Hilton
Cover Art by: Ashton Hardeman
Divider Art by: Jeff McDowall
Published by: Pavonine books
© 2013 Abigail Hilton. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This material may not be reproduced, modified, or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact the author at [email protected]. Artwork was purchased and is displayed by agreement with the artist.
A Cat Prince Distinguishes Himself
The wolfling knew it was going to die. Lexis saw no trace of hope in its haggard face. His attendants had shredded most of the wolfling’s clothes in the process of catching it. Lexis paced closer, sniffing, curious. He’d never had an opportunity to see a wolfling this closely before. Now he felt faintly disappointed. Like all shelts, the creature stood on two legs. From the waist down, it resembled its animal counterpart, the wolf. The remains of its bright red doublet and tunic looked, even to Lexis’s feline eyes, like fine material. The tattered remnants of a gold sash hung from one shoulder. It looked soft and well-fed and not at all dangerous.
Lexis was a young tiger cub. His head came only to the creature’s waist, yet he had no doubt he could kill it. His attendants would have made certain it was unarmed. If his king-father found that they’d let his son be injured, they would pay in blood.
Lexis wondered whether he would see his father today. He could only remember seeing Demitri twice—once at a great distance during a procession, and once in his nursery den. His father had watched Lexis learning to hunt rabbits, but he’d never spoken to his cub.
And he never will, thought Lexis, unless I win my battle on the Field of Bones.
A spear flew over the garden wall and stood quivering in the ground three paces away. In the split second as the spear vibrated between them, Lexis read the tiny flame of hope that blossomed in his victim’s eyes. The wolfling lunged for the spear. Before he could lift it, two leopards and a lion were in the air.
“Stop!” bellowed Lexis. “The creature is mine.”
The wolfling had the spear and was backing away. Lexis was impressed. In spite of its court dress and soft body, it had plainly been trained at some point. Lexis took a step nearer. He knew he looked fiercer than he felt. His bone-white fur was stained crimson midway up all four legs, and he was speckled all over with blood. In truth, he hadn’t done any of the killing. He’d only been walking through the streets.
“Your Highness, this is unwise,” came the voice of one of the leopards.
“Your Highness?” spat the wolfling. “The Creator has been merciful.”
Lexis cocked his head. “How so, wolfling? Your city is falling. The streets are choked with your dead. Even now, my father’s cats are overrunning your palace. Soon your king will lie lifeless among his people, and all his line will perish with him. Our cats will hunt down and kill every wolf and wolfling in Sardor-de-lore. Where is the mercy in that?”
The wolfling raised his chin a little. Lexis wondered whether he was of royal blood. “I die today,” he spat. “But Demitri the cruel—his son dies with me.”
He leapt at Lexis, darting out with the spear like a heron at a fish. Lexis sprang to one side, but not fast enough. The spear caught his flank. The wound startled more than hurt him. Lexis had never been physically hurt.
One of the lions roared, but Lexis hushed him with a growl, never taking his eyes off the wolfling. They’d moved apart again, the adult cats making a ring around them. The wolfling dodged this way and that, trying to catch Lexis off balance.
“One son, perhaps,” said Lexis. “What of the other?”
He wondered whether his brother would be glad if the wolfling killed him. But then he would never be able to prove himself. Our father would doubt his worth. Lexis and his brother had never seen each other and never would until they met on the Field of Bones at two years of age to decide who would rule Filinia. Everyone knew that Demitri had made the mistake of keeping his first litter together. When it came to the finish, the winning cub had refused to give the killing stroke. Demitri had killed both of them and made certain his next litter knew the story. This time, the cubs were reared separately in the old tradition. This time, a strong heir would walk from the field.
“You can’t kill both of us,” Lexis told the wolfling. “I don’t even know where my brother is.” Although he’s certainly here somewhere. Father wanted both of us here to see his triumph.
And, perhaps, said a small voice in the back of his head, to prove ourselves. What have I done today, except walk through gutters of blood? What have I contributed to this victory? With Demitri, everything was a test. Lexis wasn’t sure he was passing.
The wolfling laughed—a ragged, winded sound. Lexis wondered how long his guards had played with the creature before bringing it to him. “You are the white cub. The other is orange. Everyone knows the white tigers are the worst. There’s wizard blood in that line—some cursed shape-shifter from the time of magic, the first white tiger. Perhaps you will be the last.”
This time Lexis darted in under the spear. His training and instincts brought him curving around to the back of the wolfling’s leg. The wolfling screamed as the cub’s teeth severed his hamstring. His blood filled Lexis’s mouth for one giddy moment, and then the butt of the spear hit the back of the cub’s head so hard that he staggered. Lexis heard a confused hissing sound, a roar, and a snarl. He staggered to his feet and saw one of his guards impaled on the wolfling’s spear. The leopard was writhing pitifully, screaming. The others would have killed the wolfling already, but a huge gray wolf was standing over the shelt. He must have come from the fighting in the streets beyond the garden wall. He was stippled with blood, one ear missing, and deep scratches over his shoulders.
Lexis’s first thought was for his guard. This is my fault. But the leopard was clearly beyond saving. He’d opened the wolfling’s thigh to the bone, and the shelt was moving weakly in the protective shadow of the wolf. He put his hand out to the animal, who licked it without taking his eyes from the cats. Lexis knew why they weren’t attacking. There was no need. The wolfling would bleed to death in seconds.
The leopard stopped moving, and a terrible stillness descended on the garden. Lexis stared at the wolfling who should have been his first two-legged kill. The wolf narrowed its yellow eyes, its lips peeling back from white teeth. Lexis knew the wolf couldn’t talk. Some said it was the fault of the wolflings—that they’d subjugated and enslaved the wolves—others said that the wizards had cursed the wolves long ago.
Somewhere in that distant past when wolves still talked, cats had had their own shelts. Lexis had seen pictures of the creatures with two legs and tails like cats and faces and hands of men. But we killed our shelts, he thought, because cats are no one’s slaves.
He looked at the wolf, still straddling the body of the wolfling. “Stupid beast. Your master is already gone.”
That wasn’t quite true. The wolfling stirred. “Go,” he whispered to the wolf. “Go, Merin. Live. Please.”
None of you will live, thought Lexis, no inhabitant of this doomed city of my father’s triumph.
The wolf whined, and Lexis saw that she was a female. He could see in her eyes that she had chosen this spot to die. That was all they had left—choosing where to die. He watched her wi
th all his guards tensing around her for the kill. He watched her lower her head again to lick the blood from the wolfling’s hand and nuzzle his cheek at the moment of his last shuddering breath.
Lexis felt his stomach clench. He knew beyond a doubt that no one would have done as much for him. They would have been appalled if he’d been killed, afraid for their own lives, but not heartbroken. He realized that he was jealous—insanely, gut-wrenchingly jealous.
The instant the wolfing was still, the wolf sprang. Lexis never gave the order to kill her. His guards probably would have done it even if he’d told them not to. He left the garden feeling miserable and angry. He’d expected to make his first shelt kill during this battle, but it was all going wrong. He hadn’t done anything except get one of his guards needlessly speared. He wanted to feel that he was in control of those guards—his personal army. Instead, he felt like they were in control of him. He wondered what report they would return to his father. He wondered whether his brother was distinguishing himself while Lexis required babysitting.
One of the leopards broke into his thoughts. “Is his Highness satisfied with the day’s work?”
Lexis glared up at him. No, I’m not satisfied. Not with anything. He would have said it, but that would have been cruel. His guard was not trying to be spiteful, and the dead leopard had been his friend. Lexis wasn’t friends with any of them. His guards changed as often as the moons. So that I will never grow attached to them. So that I won’t grow weak or stupid…or loved.
They were in the street again. Lexis tried hard to understand what he was seeing. It didn’t look like a battle to him—not like the neat descriptions and pictures made with lines of stones in the sand. It looked like chaos. It looked like cats going house to house, dragging out wolflings and wolves and tearing them to pieces. It looked like desperate barricades, easily overrun. It looked like slaughter.
I must be strong, thought Lexis. I will be the future king of Filinia, or I will be dead. There is no middle ground. There is no other way.
Lexis looked down. He was standing on a metal grill. Underneath, a narrow tunnel connected to the city’s drainage and sewer system. It was too small a refuge for adult wolves and wolflings, but directly below him, Lexis saw too small wolfling children. They were obviously in the act of fleeing down the tunnel. One of them, a boy, was staring up at Lexis in abject horror. The boy’s worst fears had been realized; he’d been spotted. The other, a girl was even smaller, and she hadn’t seen Lexis. She was leaning against the boy, panting, clutching his hand. Lexis didn’t know enough about shelts to guess their ages, but he supposed they were about his own age. Their clothes looked expensive—now spattered with filth and blood.
The boy hadn’t moved. He was staring into Lexis’s blue eyes. One word, thought Lexis, and my guards will be looking for a way in there. We could flush out these little wolflings like rabbits. I could fit in that tunnel. I wanted to distinguish myself today, contribute to our victory. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it?
Lexis looked away from the little wolflings. He took a deep breath, yawned, and lay down there in the street. His guards glanced at him, but they didn’t say anything. Lexis covered the grill with his body for several minutes. When he stood up, the wolflings were gone. He felt unaccountably light. His improved mood must have shown on his face, because one of his guards asked cautiously, “Is his Highness better pleased now?”
“Yes,” said Lexis. I think I just saved two members of the royal family. He tried to feel sorry and couldn’t. He thought, I hope they run fast and far. I hope they get away. And someday, when we’re all grown, I hope we change the world.
Author’s Note
“Cat Prince” is backstory from my Prophet of Panamindorah series. Lexis is an adult in those books, but the events that his father set in motion are still causing problems for Lexis and everyone else. The first Prophet of Panamindorah book is free everywhere, and you can get the second book for free by signing up to my newsletter. Details at the end of this ebook.
Distraction
Gabalon stumbled out of his bedroom, clutching his belly. Yellow moon peered like a predatory eye through the window at the end of the hall. The guest suit was eerily silent. What has father done?
Gabalon risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the assassin—a wolfling, perhaps. He was not quite running, and that worried Gabalon, too. Who hired him? The Morelings? Uncle Shanesel? Lord Arian himself?
“Help!” he shouted. He needed to shift, to heal, but that would be viewed as an act of aggression, and he still thought that perhaps a guard might come. “Help! Murder!” Nothing. We are betrayed.
It was no secret why sixteen-year-old Gabalon and his brother were “guests” of King Arian this summer. They were here to ensure their father’s good behavior in the uneasy truce that had been brokered last fall. Has father done something to anger our host? Or is one of Arian’s own lords trying to stir up trouble? Is it our uncle again? Does it matter?
The assassin slipped like a ghost out of Gabalon’s bedroom and down the hall. His sword gleamed briefly in the starlight from a window. He was holding it wide—wary. He expects me to shift, thought Gabalon. Young dragons did not have thick scales. He’ll lop off my head like a snake. I’d have a better chance fighting him with a weapon.
But he had no weapon. No, that’s not true. The assassin’s dagger was buried in his midriff. It should have been between his ribs, but he’d woken just in time. Gabalon was wearing the shape of the little antelope fauns that King Arian ruled. He wished he’d chosen a bigger form. No help for it now. He didn’t think he had enough strength to shift more than once. He could feel the blood surging between his fingers with every beat of his heart.
Somewhere in the lower floors of the building, he heard softly running footsteps, but no shouts, no alarm bells. They are not coming to help me. Gabalon made a decision. He pulled the dagger from his own gut and hurled it at the assassin. He did not wait to see the results, but turned and dashed to the end of the hall. He hesitated beside the last door. I should shift, fly through the window. It was not a large window, but he was not yet a large dragon. I should flee without a backwards glance.
Instead, he tore open the door. Not locked. It should have been locked.
Am I too late? He shut the door behind him, bolted it, and ran to the bed in the corner. He tore back the sheets. “Archemais?”
His little brother looked up at him, wide-eyed. Archemais was six. He was Gabalon’s half-brother. Gabalon had not given him much notice before their exile, but he’d come to value the child—one familiar, guileless face in a world of secrets and deceit. He’d told his little brother more than he should have, perhaps, over the summer. Could he have been indiscrete? Is that what this is about?
“Alon?” Archemais sat up, and Gabalon spotted another form in the bed. It was a little faun, no older than five or six—a playmate given to his brother to keep him company. The two children were about the same size. They were both awake now, staring at him. “Alon, what’s wrong?” asked Archemais again.
“Sir—?” began the faun, and then someone tried to turn the doorknob. The door rattled—gently at first, then louder.
Gabalon’s head was starting to spin. He went to the closet and found Archemais’s dressing gown—red silk with the royal insignia. He pointed to the faun. “You, come here.”
The child scrambled out of bed and came to him, puzzled. Gabalon put the dressing gown on him and tied the sash. The faun gasped. He’d noticed Gabalon’s hands, sticky with blood.
“Alon, what are you doing?” asked Archemais.
Gabalon stumbled towards him. “Saving your life,” he said thickly.
His little brother could not shift yet, not reliably. He was still learning. Gabalon scooped Archemais up in his arms and started for the window. Something hit the door, and the hinges creaked.
It’s time to shift, thought Gabalon, but his body did not respond. He reached the window. He heard the door
’s bolt breaking. He jumped.
Archemais went rigid. His arms locked around his brother’s neck, but he did not cry out. The cool night air whipped around them. Gabalon reached for his shape, his true form, reached…and found it. A sixteen-year-old shape shifter did not make a large dragon. Clasping his terrified brother to his chest, Gabalon barely managed to clear the ground, three stories below. He beat his way heavily upward, his body still dizzy from blood loss. They would have made an easy target for assassin arrows from the room above, had the assassins not been provided with a distraction.
The young faun’s scream cut through the night. Gabalon was prepared for that, but not for his brother, who screamed, too. Archemais was staring back over the dragon’s shoulder into the room.
“It was just a faun, just a slave,” Gabalon panted.
Archemais was sobbing. “Alon, they’re killing him! They’re killing Palwa! We have to go back! We have to—”
“They’re killing him because they think he’s you,” snapped Gabalon. “Archemais, stop squirming; I can’t hold onto you!”
The child was growing hysterical. Gabalon pushed into his mind. His brother had no mental defenses at all. It was easy. Hush. Be still. He could feel his brother’s grief and anger, surprisingly strong in one so young. You will forgive me for this. You will forget. He was stronger, had been stronger even when he’d been a child. We will return to this city with an army. Lord Arian will pay for this.
His brother’s body began to relax. Behind them, the assassins had probably figured out the rouse, but Gabalon was already out of arrow range. The distraction had lasted just long enough.
Author’s Note
“Distraction” is backstory from my Prophet of Panamindorah series. Gabalon and Archemais are hundreds of years old by then and have been bitter enemies for most of their lives.
Get The Prophet of Panamindorah Books 1 and 2 for FREE.
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The first two books in the Prophet of Panamindorah trilogy (young adult)
The first two books in the Hunters Unlucky series (young adult)
The first two books in the Guild of the Cowry Catchers series (adult or mature teen)
“A Cat Prince Distinguishes Himself,” an introductory short story to the Prophet series, along with bonus story, “Distraction.”
“Sky Dance,” an introductory novelette to the Cowry Catchers series.
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In the meantime, here’s a sneak peek of Book 1 Fauns and Filinians
Prelude: Sing Muse
Hope died with the day in the city of Selbis. In the west the sinking sun bled color like a severed artery, etching the shadows of parapet teeth on the red stone walls. In a tower room of the great keep, the light fell across a man, a wolf, and a tree. The man sprawled on a branch-strewn couch. He held an enormous dagger, its cross-guard set with jagged fragments of pearl, a strange pale jewel in the pommel. His other hand clutched something on the end of a necklace. Sap oozed from the torn branches beneath him, staining his white silk shirt and black trousers. He lay as still as a waxwork, humming softly under his breath, his clothes ruffling in the breeze that blew through the open window.
A great black wolf lay on the floor, watching him through dull eyes. He wore an iron muzzle so heavy that he could barely lift his head. Blood glistened in the fur above his shoulder blades. Sometimes he offered a growl in response to the man’s humming, but the sound came weak and muted through the muzzle.
The tree lay everywhere. It seemed to have passed violently through the window, leaving scratches across the walls and a dusting of loose mortar and fallen stone around the sill. The sticky brown sap had a sweet, sharp odor. It had pooled on the tiles and matted in the upholstery of the couch. The man’s coal black hair had grown sticky with the tree’s blood, yet he lay perfectly still and hummed.
At last, an eagle dropped through the window. Its wings shot out to stop its dive an instant before it hit the floor. The man sat up and sheathed the dagger at his belt. He had pale skin and eyes as green as the leaves of the tree. He smiled. “Morchella.”
The eagle shook its feathers. Its form rippled and leapt up like an uncoiling spring. A woman stood in the bird’s place, wearing a blue hooded robe. She tossed her head, throwing back the hood. The wolf managed a growl somewhat louder than before. The woman ignored him. She bowed at the waist. “They are coming, my lord. The battle went poorly today.”
The man nodded. He did not seem surprised. “How near the city?”
“They will be here before dawn.”
He stretched, graceful as a cat, and let go of the necklace. The chain hung down in a sharp V, but nothing appeared on the end.
“Gabalon,” said the woman, her voice losing its formality, “the city is in a panic. I spoke with Denathar at the gate. He is trying to keep the curfew, but soon he will need to make good his threats. The citizens think the war is lost. They are desperate to flee.”
The man twirled his dagger thoughtfully. “They must not do that. Tell him to start executing the worst offenders. They must fear me more than they fear wolflings.”
Morchella inclined her head. “He also said that while the city panics, you have been wandering around the forest tearing up trees.”
Gabalon laughed. “Yes, I have.” He looked around in satisfaction at the half destroyed room. “Can you hear the music bleeding from it?”
The wolf was growling again. He managed to get to his feet, but he could not lift his head. “Poor Telsar,” murmured Gabalon, “he was never good at bowing, but he is learning.”
Morchella glanced at the wolf. “What else do you plan for him?”
Gabalon walked to his prisoner. The animal was large as a pony. It swung its iron muzzle, but Gabalon reached down and caught it easily. “Even now, he does not know how to run away.”
“You have what you need?” asked Morchella.
“I have.”
“Then, what—?”
He waved a hand. “I will know when I am finished and not before.” He kicked one of the wolf’s feet from under it, and the animal went down heavily on its belly. The muzzle made a sharp clink against the tiles. “Take him back to the dungeons. I’ll be down shortly.”
Morchella looked amused. “Will you not leave him sane long enough to see the destruction of his army? That is unlike you, Gabalon.”
“Oh, I think I’ll let him keep his sanity. His music is so strong. Perhaps I will need it again. His tongue, on the other hand, I can do without.”
The wolf jerked his muzzle, and this time he caught Gabalon on a shin. The man’s hand descended with reptilian swiftness to seize the wolf’s bloody ruff. Telsar clamped his teeth on a whine. “They are already lost,” said Gabalon, “all your wolves and wolflings. They think they have their teeth at my throat, but victory will turn to dust in their mouths.” He bent close to the wolf’s ear and purred, “I could not have done it without you.”
Morchella wrinkled her nose. “He stinks of blood and filth.” She was searching among the leaves on the floor. Finally she found the wolf’s collar and chain. “What of Archemais?”
Gabalon stood and straightened his sap-stained cuffs. “Ah, yes, you were not here this morning. We had an attempted theft.”
Morchella’s eyebrows rose. “Of what?”
“The Muse, of course.”
“I see you still have it.”
“Yes, and after this morning Archemais will be too frantic over his own losses to worry about helping the rebel army.”
Morchella gave a delighted laugh. “What did you—?”
Gabalon waved her away. “Take Telsar to the dungeon and my message to Denathar. I must begin the evening’s work.”
He turned and walked to the window, shaking the leaves from his clothes as he went. Without breaking stride, he stepped on
to the windowsill and over the edge. An instant later, a huge winged shadow passed over the tower, blotting out the sun.
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