The Catswold Portal (36 page)

O
n a narrow ridge east of Shenndeth, Siddonie sat on her horse watching a band of mountain elven driven screaming and fighting over the cliff. The pale little people grabbed at the soldiers' horses and jabbed with their lances as her horse soldiers clubbed them. For three days her armies had been routing these small, hidden bands, working north from Lettlehem toward the main area of battle. Her troops had swept Lettlehem clean, as well as Pearilleth and now Shenndeth, leaving the villages stripped of life and food.

Below her a dozen winged lizards banked and dove at the bodies strewn along the cliff, lapping their blood. When a new lizard, a big male, heaved down out of the sky she held out her arm to it.

It wore a collar. It landed so heavily it nearly unseated her. Its eyes seemed still filled with the Hell fires from which it had just returned. Its long, slick body shone like ebony, its leathery wings glinted with black scales. It grunted a greeting, then spoke in a guttural hiss forced up through its long, narrow throat.

“Three rebel bands west of Cressteane,” it said, “hiding in the mountains.” It smiled a toothy grimace. “Fear touches them, the spirit of the dark beast has found them. It plays with their fear like dragons play with a lamb.” The lizard's black tongue flicked with satisfaction.

Siddonie nodded. “And what else? What of the main rebel army? And what of the Catswold? What has the dark beast done to the Catswold?”

The lizard turned its face away, as if she would strike it.
“The Catswold do not heed the dark beast. I flew all the way through that endless tunnel to Zzadarray. I saw the spirit of the beast lying like fog over Zzadarray darkening the streets and chambers, but the Catswold moved through it never seeing it, never aware of it.”

“That is not possible.
I
can see it, and so can they! I see it every night in dream.”

She did not speak of her fear at night as the dark beast came exploding into her dreams. She would not speak of that to a lizard. The dream filled her with rage.
She
had called the beast, it must obey
her.
No creature, no being, dare have power over her. She said, “The beast should be driving terror into the Catswold. Why is it not?”

The lizard gazed at her intently.

“Go back. Go back there and find out!”

“But I can tell you why.”

“Why, then? Speak up!”

“The primal dark has risen at your call, but that does not mean it is your servant, Queen Siddonie. You have summoned the dark that lived before the earth was formed. You have challenged it, but it goes where it pleases and it destroys only as it pleases. That beast will never be ruled by you.”

Her hand circled its throat. “I am its heir!
I
am daughter of Lillith. It
must
obey me.”

The lizard opened its wet mouth in a mirthless smile, and wriggled as her hand tightened. “You have found the power to summon it. It is drawn to you as surely as I am drawn to blood, but that does not mean it will obey you.

“The primal dark is not your slave, Siddonie. You are its slave.” It choked suddenly, strangled by her throttling grip; she cast it away from her. It dropped, then righted itself and flew above her clumsily.

“Go back,” she shouted. “Go back and learn more about the Catswold. I want to know why they resist.”

From the stone sky, the beast glared at her, then plunged away flapping.

Z
zadarray's towers were airy, open to the Netherworld breezes. The city was built of pale stone, the pillars and stone facades carved into leaf and flower designs. The upper chambers let onto balconies, and the lower chambers onto small private gardens scaled to a cat. In the main city, preparations for war were under way, conducted as smoothly and seemingly without effort as the stalking of small game through Zzadarray's grassy meadows. The Catswold from Marchell and Cathenn and Ebenth had joined those of Zzadarray, and they were heavily armed.

All the Catswold women had taken human form. They wore their finest silks and their sacred jewelry, golden anklets, amber necklaces, ruby and emerald girdles. Lapis and emerald combs were fastened into piebald locks, religious treasures all, brought down to the Netherworld in ancient times from the Celtic lands and from Egypt. In the white stone temple as the women knelt, their jewelry was blessed by the five Catswold priests, and their weapons and the weapons of the Catswold men were blessed. As midnight approached the Catswold nation prepared with feasting and then with spells and with prayer. Tomorrow they would ride against the dark queen.

Their rituals spoke to the sun god Ra, though none of them had ever seen the sun. They prayed to Bast and to Sekhmet, speaking in the lost cadences of Cyprus and Crete, or in the tongue of Mycenae and Knossos. But in spite of the ritual spells a tenseness held the Catswold, a fear none could name, a sense of threat far greater than Siddonie. As dawn
began to green Zzadarray's towers, the rituals ended. The Catswold went silent; a wariness held them. And then they sensed a nearer threat. Something approached the city. Someone moved through the forest toward Zzadarray and it was not one of their own.

Weapons were sheathed, spells were repeated. And a dozen Catswold took feline form and moved into shadow among the trees, listening, watching.

Soon every Catswold heard the hushed footfall of a lone horse, and smelled the crushed leaves and grass. At the edge of the forest a branch moved and a rider emerged on a tall, fiery horse: not a horse of this world.

The rider was a woman, young and thin, hard muscled. Her black hair was streaked with orange, her face sharp-planed, and the shadow image of a darkly mottled cat clung about her. She was dressed in the golden robes of the Catswold queen, yet the Catswold did not lay down their weapons for her. They did not kneel. Why would a queen appear now, when no queen had appeared in Zzadarray in a generation?

When they saw that she was followed by a consort, an ermine-robed king who rode in the shadows behind her, whispers flared across the crowd and arrows were fitted to bow.

Her consort was Efil of Affandar. And from out of the forest behind him emerged an army of horse soldiers. The Catswold warriors mounted their steeds, and faced the advancing party quietly.

The approaching warriors were hard-looking men and women. They were Catswold but they were strange. And far more alarming than their looks was the fact that they rode upperworld horses and wielded oddly shaped swords and knives of unfamiliar design. Their clothes, though seeming at first to be Netherworld garments, were not of the Netherworld.

The approaching army paused in the forest shadow. Their eyes gleamed like jewels in the dimness, and then as they moved out of the forest the darkness of their tanned faces struck another foreign note.

The Catswold queen—if such she be—sat her mount haughtily, studying the gathered Catswold, studying each priest intently. The Catswold nation watched her.

Then she shook her dark, mottled hair, and fingered her golden robe open, revealing a thin, sheer gown which draped over her breasts. And between her breasts against the gold filament hung an emerald. It was huge and tear-shaped. It was held by two gold cats, their paws joined. It was the Amulet of Bast, or it pretended to be.

“I am Helsa. I am your queen. The wisdom of the Amulet has brought me to seek you.”

“For what purpose?” said a priest.

“Because you are my subjects,” she said, smiling gently.

“And also I come to free you—to lead you against Siddonie of Affandar. I mean to free you from her subjugation. I mean to free all Catswold and to strengthen the four eastern nations. I come,” said Helsa smoothly, “to free the Netherworld.” She smiled again, speaking softly. “Won't you kneel to your queen?”

No one moved. No one knelt. Helsa's eyes narrowed in thinly concealed anger. But she was Catswold; she knew better than to demand that they kneel. She said, “Within the hour I mean to ride to defeat Siddonie. I hope you will join me in setting our nations free. I pray, as Catswold queen, that you will see fit to arm and provision yourselves to ride against Siddonie.”

When still no one spoke or moved, Helsa's color rose and her eyes blazed. But still her words were soft. “Would you see Siddonie of Affandar destroy us all and defeat Zzadarray?”

A priest said, “We are only shocked, my lady. The Netherworld Catswold have seen no queen in my lifetime. Indeed,” he said smoothly, “we will follow you to destroy Siddonie.”

Helsa nodded. “I mean to ride out in an hour, once my troops are rested. I pray you to sharpen your heaviest weapons. If Siddonie should win this war, all the Netherworld will be enslaved. And for nothing,” she continued. “Siddonie has no longer any right to the throne of Affandar.”

A puzzled hush held the gathered Catswold. The five priests glanced at one another.

Helsa said, “By Netherworld law, Siddonie has no valid claim, now, to the throne.” She gave Efil a bold look. “I am now queen of promise. I carry within me the future prince of Affandar. I carry King Efil's child. The soothsayers have so confirmed.”

After a long silence, someone among the Catswold said, “The child of Efil and Siddonie is well again. All the Netherworld knows that.”

Efil sat his horse calmly. He looked very pale beside the sun-darkened Catswold woman. He said, “The boy who travels with Siddonie is not her son nor mine. The boy is a changeling. He was brought by Siddonie from the upperworld.” The Catswold folk shifted and glanced at one another but no one spoke. Efil said, “Soon I will produce Wylles. I will show you the two boys side by side. Meantime, hear your queen. She is not only Catswold queen but queen of promise of Affandar. Hear the plan we have structured.”

Helsa waited for their full attention. Her creamy voice carried as insidiously as a breeding cat's rich mewl. “I have promised Queen Siddonie that I will lead you with my own band of upperworld Catswold to fight beside her. I have told her that together we will defeat the rebel bands.”

Her voice softened to a haunting murmur. “We join with Siddonie's armies on the battlefield. And then,” Helsa said, her hands curving as if she made claws, “we will turn on them. We will destroy Siddonie's troops and destroy Siddonie. We will kill her and free the Netherworld.”

There were nods among the Catswold. But again the priests glanced at one another. Helsa watched them and smiled, and raised her fist. “One hour.”

And as she turned away, one among the crowd said, “My name is Oeden the Black.” And another said, “I am Galvino Grayleg.” Helsa turned back and nodded, smiling at them because they had given her, by such greeting, admission of their belief and fealty.

When Helsa had gone to rest, the Catswold moved about their hasty chores, their eyes meeting slyly at the lies their men had been able to speak to this false queen. If, while wearing the Amulet, she could not detect lies, then she was not of queen's blood and likely the amulet was as false as she.

Yet quickly they made their final preparations for war, readying supplies, inspecting horses and equipment. King Efil moved among them, greeting one then another. He spoke for a long while with the Catswold priests. He did not notice an occasional cat slip away between the robes of its companions; he had no notion that three dozen cats left the ranks of the preparing warriors.

Helsa was escorted to the most luxurious apartments to rest. She was led through the honeycomb of pale stone bowers and grottoes to a high tower, to a chamber walled in white marble and carpeted with embroidered cushions. She took off the outer, ceremonial robe of gold lamé, and in her transparent gold shift she stretched out on the damask covers of an ornate bed. She did not change to cat. Glancing above her at the high, small alcove lined with silk, she studied the true bed of the apartment's occupant. The alcove looked deliciously comfortable, but she did not intend to abandon her human form. She lay relaxed, stretching, thinking with satisfaction of the web she and Siddonie had woven.

She had told the Catswold she would pretend to join Siddonie, then destroy her. Efil, too, believed this. The fool thought he would remain king. He thought he had charmed her, won her. Only Siddonie knew that Helsa would, in truth, lead the Catswold to be slaughtered. Plan and counterplan, lie and counter lie wove an intriguing tangle.

She smiled, warm with Siddonie's promise. Her tough street loyalty had been securely won during Siddonie's three visits to the upperworld ranch. She respected Siddonie; the queen was strong. Soon she would ride by Siddonie's side as her disciple, and when Siddonie died she would be heir to the throne of Affandar and to all the thrones of the Nether
world, for surely in this war they would win every nation. When Siddonie died, she would be queen of the Netherworld.

She slept briefly and lightly, hearing every sound near the chamber. She woke and lay supine for a moment, then flipped up, drew on the gold robe, adjusted the hood, belted on her sword, and was prepared to ride.

T
he army moved out of Zzadarray with Netherworld Catswold and upperworld Catswold riding side by side. The upperworld horses were several hands taller than those of Zzadarray, and the upperworld Catswold were edgy, predatory, and impatient. The mixed band moved quickly down the steep ridges heading for the valley and the mountains beyond, making directly for the valley of Cressteane.

But not all Helsa's troops were with them. A cadre of mounted San Francisco street rabble waited unseen in the forest, and when only the old folk and children remained in Zzadarray these riders stormed the city with the violence born of Siddonie's training. They ransacked the chambers for jewels, tore at the walls of the buildings, cudgeling and breaking the soft stone. They were primed to kill and torture, but they found no Catswold—the city was deserted. The old and the frail had turned to cats and vanished into the forest. Then suddenly out from the forest rode three dozen Zzadarray Catswold armed with bows and with heavy, spell-cast swords.

Soon on the streets of Zzadarray, Siddonie's soldiers lay dead.

 

Helsa's army moved slowly down the steep, corrugated ridges formed of sandstone and clumps of twisted trees growing stunted from the stone. Far below lay the plain hidden by mists of steam rising from hot underground springs. They must cross the plain then cross beneath the mountains on the other side to reach the plains of Cressteane. The sky above them was low, and broken by streaks of white crystal. They rode silently. Helsa and King Efil, at the head of the army, were flanked by two Zzadarray priests. Helsa had dispersed the three other priests to ride at the head of three battalions, perhaps as leaders or perhaps to separate them. A Catswold priest was a military captain as well, a freely elected leader. The refinements of corruption which elect most officials had not touched Zzadarray. The Catswold folk were too stubbornly independent to tolerate corruption. Thus Helsa felt it best that these priests be separated.

The upperworld Catswold troops sat their horses eagerly looking across the plain toward the far mountains, primed and honed for battle. And the warriors of Zzadarray who rode beside them watched them closely, wondering at the fervor of upperworld folk to save a foreign land.

They did not reach the plain that night but camped on the escarpments, and finished their descent the next morning. By the evening of the second day they had crossed the plain and were at the foot of the mountains, nearing the deep passage that, two days hence, would bring them up into the heart of battle. They were dismounting to make camp at the foot of the mountains when a captain shouted, and men began to point up toward the peaks. Something was flying toward them above the mountain, its thin shadow shifting and gliding across the granite sky. In the falling green light its wings shone golden. It flew with great power, its broad wings describing long, slow sweeps. “A griffon,” whispered one of the priests, and the Zzadarray warriors smiled and sheathed their swords. But Helsa rode tense in the saddle and the swords of her troops were drawn.

The Griffon dropped toward them. At the last moment its
golden wings snapped out to break its fall; it thundered earthward, driving the horses back so they reared and shied. Its rider's sword was drawn, and as the Griffon came to rest and his rider faced the Catswold troops, a sigh escaped the Zzadarray warriors. She was Catswold and there was about her a presence that held them staring.

She was beautiful and slim. Her piebald hair was tangled from the wind of the Griffon's wings, hair of red and gold and platinum and black, the hair of a true Catswold queen. She was dressed in fighting leathers, and she held her sword comfortably. Her eyes were as green as the emerald which hung between her breasts, drawing the gaze of every warrior—an emerald circled by two golden cats, twin of the pendant Helsa wore. The young Catswold woman ignored Helsa; she seemed to see only the faces of the warriors. Helsa stared at her, white and still, then lunged suddenly, spurring her horse to a leaping charge, her sword leveled at the woman's throat.

 

Melissa felt the Griffon tense, and a dozen emotions swept her as the girl's sword flashed and she parried with her own. The Griffon twisted, knocking the girl's horse to its knees, and Melissa slashed her sword aside. She grabbed the horse's bridle, snubbing him, and pressed her sword to the girl's chest, knowing she could kill her with one thrust. She was shocked at how young the girl was, maybe fifteen. Though her green stare was far older, brazen with street cunning.

“Who are you? What is your name?”

“Helsa!” the girl spat. “I am Helsa.” She lunged and tried to snatch away the reins. Melissa slashed her arm, drawing blood, and Helsa's face filled with hatred.

“Why do you wear the golden robes of a Catswold queen? And what is that stone you wear? Do you claim
that
to be the Amulet of Bast?” She felt pity for the girl, and she feared her. “Answer me! What is that stone you wear?”

“The Am…It is the Am…”

The lie would not come; the girl could not lie within the
true amulet's presence. She stared at the true stone, trying to speak, her face white.

“Name that stone for me. Name the stone you wear.”

Silence.

“Name it! What is it?” Her sword pressed harder. “Where did you get it?”

Still Helsa was silent.

Melissa pulled the reins tighter, jerking Helsa's horse close. “Name it.”

“It…” She choked, stared at Melissa with rage, and spoke at last as if she could not help but speak, as if she had been forced to do so. “It is—it is a common emerald.”

“Has it power?” Melissa glanced past the girl to the listening troops.

No answer.

“Has it power?”

“It has…It has no power.” The girl sat up straighter in the saddle, her face sharp with hatred.

“Where do you come from?”

“From—from the upperworld.”

“Tell me why you wear a false amulet.”

Helsa stared into the brilliance of the true amulet, clenching her lips, refusing to speak. Melissa prodded her hard with the tip of her sword. “Do you wear it to deceive the Catswold warriors?”

Reluctantly she nodded.

“Why do you deceive them?”

The choice of silence seemed no longer to remain to her. “I—I deceive them to defeat them. I—mean to defeat the Zzadarray armies.”

“Throw away the false stone, into the dirt.”

Helsa didn't move. Melissa prodded her again, drawing a deep wound. The girl glared but did not cry out; now her eyes showed fear. Melissa prodded again, cutting down her arm, sickened at doing this and knowing she must. At last Helsa removed the false emerald and dropped it in the dust.

“Take off the robe.”

She removed the golden robe and lay it over her saddle,
her eyes filled with ruined dreams. Melissa took up the robe with the tip of her sword, and pulled it on over her leathers as two Zzadarray soldiers took the reins of Helsa's mount. The girl, nearly naked in her thin shift, seemed frail and vulnerable. Melissa touched the Amulet at her throat. “Tell the Catswold warriors your true mission. Tell them what they would have found if they had followed you.”

“Their death,” Helsa said tightly. “My mission was to lead them into Siddonie's trap.”

“This was your real promise to Siddonie,” Melissa said,

“that you would bring the Catswold to her to die.”

“Yes.”

One of the five Zzadarray priests rode up close to Helsa, spurring his shaggy horse, his white robes open to reveal his fighting leathers. He faced Helsa angrily, showing no pity for her frailty and youth. “You are a Catswold woman. By what perversion would you destroy your own people?”

“By this perversion, priest,” Helsa said boldly. “I am to rule Zzadarray! I am to be Siddonie's only heir. She has promised I will rule all the Netherworld after her death.” And suddenly Helsa turned, knocking Melissa's sword aside, snatching up her reins and spurring her startled mount. Melissa caught the girl's arm as the priest swung his blade. He struck Helsa from the saddle, cutting her throat in one blow.

Melissa stared down, shocked at the girl sprawled in the dust, and Helsa, as life bled from her, slowly changed to cat. Soon a thin, darkly mottled cat lay bleeding in the dust at the feet of the circling horses. Melissa turned away, shaken.

The priests of Zzadarray buried Helsa deep in the earth of a world she had never known. And Melissa saw, in the eyes of the upperworld Catswold who had come here with Helsa, the beginning of uncertainty.

She mounted Helsa's horse and pulled the golden hood up to hide her hair. The horse was a tall, distinctly marked pinto that she suspected Siddonie had chosen so Helsa would be easy to see during battle. She turned to look at the Catswold troops gathered behind her, then led them out toward the tunnel that would bring them into Cressteane.

Earlier she had seen from the sky the lines of battle, the plains of Cressteane crowded with the armies of eight nations, their tents filling the dry plain some distance from the Hell Pit. And in the Hell Pit she had seen the leaping flames stirring wildly, licking up at the sky as if they would leap from the pit to run unchecked across the desert, consuming warriors and horses. She had seen deep down within the fires a darkness writhing, growing denser. She had watched a huge black beast take form among the flames, and watched it fight to leave the Hell Pit rearing, falling back to rear again. The Griffon had dived down close above the beast, looking, and she had felt its evil engulf her, more malevolent than any Hell Beast. She had never seen the beast before, but a deep race knowledge filled her, a memory that washed her with panic. This was the primal dark—this was the seed of evil. Nothing anywhere, in any world, could match its evil. This beast
was
the core, the primal corruption. The black beast had lunged up reaching for the Griffon as if they were toys flung in the air.

Now she looked at her troops for a long moment, then looked up at the sky where the Griffon glided. And, filled with fear of war, and with terror of what waited in the pit, she pressed on quickly, leading her armies toward Cressteane.