Myrrrthin had to admit that there was much to be said for being part of a warlord’s household. His belly hadn’t been empty since taking up residence; food, fresh killed or barely breathing, appeared regularly and with pleasing frequency. Led by a long-forgotten memory into the bowels of the building behind Ambrose’s loading dock, he’d claimed a cozy, secluded, and dimly familiar niche for his own, within the area over which sentries and guards kept constant watch. For the first time in more years than he cared to count, there was no need to sleep lightly with senses on guard, and for the first time in more years than he cared to count, he slept soundly.
His duties were just as pleasant. A portion of each day was spent instructing the young in the mundane skills that had served him in eluding pursuit and evading capture or worse. That he included lessons in customs, history, lore and legend seemed to do no harm, nor did they elicit comment. A larger portion of his day, thanks to his age and the perception that calling him a tom was more a courtesy than anything else, involved keeping enjoyable company with the females in the community. Those actively adding to the number of Ambrose’s subjects found his distractions and encouragements welcome additions to the birthing process. Those nursing the newest members of the colony-in truth, all the females-found his stories, songs, and small magicks (even those that didn’t turn out quite as he planned) highly amusing. Similar entertainments provided for Ambrose and his court completed his daily duties. The whole left him delicious amounts of time for numerous naps, stretched out in well guarded patches of sunlight or cool, cozy shade.
It was, all in all, a comfortable existence, and a far better way to end his days than Myrrrthin had ever expected to see. He wanted for nothing except, perhaps, his pride.
There were times, when a bit of magick went slightly awry, when the result was something unexpected and ridiculous, when laughter saluted his efforts and continued survival dictated his adoption of the demeanor of a clown, that he chafed. Through an accident of birth and bloodline, or some odd mutation in his mother’s womb, he’d been born with knowledge and power. It became evident, early on, that he possessed abilities unlike those of his siblings. The ability to wield power, to affect things around him had, indeed, been his, and had probably been the reason he’d been left to fend for himself in a deserted truck depot when barely past kittenhood.
And fend for himself he had, for many years and rather well. In his prime, he’d been a well favored, healthy tom whose speed and cunning served most of his needs. His extraordinary talents were rarely used, except in unusual circumstances affecting his own or others’ safety. Although he kept to himself, he always stayed aware of the warlord in whose domain he resided. And, over the many years, he’d had occasion to influence the outcome of potentially harmful encounters between one or more members of the warlord’s household and the dangers that periodically wandered, slunk, or coursed into his territory.
The story Ambrose had asked about that first day, of his having called lightning to his paw to deal with a ravening dogpack, had been a true one. Apparently, Ambrose did not recall, being hardly more than a toddler at the time, that one of the cats Myrrrthin had saved during that particular incident had been the future warlord himself. Not that the old cat intended to mention it, of course. He had a hunch that reminding Ambrose of a blood debt owed would result in blood better left flowing in Myrrrthin’s veins.
So Myrrrthin occasionally chafed at his waning hold on his magick, and he wondered now and then if it might not be better to wander off into the jaws of a swift death. Mostly he spent his days resigned to playing the role into which circumstance had cast him and his nights reliving his youth and power in dreams.
One afternoon near the end of a particularly hot, particularly dry summer, Myrrrthin lounged on a shelf in the nursery, playing a fuzzy ball of conjured light across the floor and watching kittens bounce after it with great enthusiasm and adorable lack of grace. Females draped in relaxed postures around the room, either dozing or conversing in low tones that added to the drone of insects that would likely turn into the next kitty toy when the young ones tired of chasing the light ball.
The drone suddenly changed into warning hisses. Kittens scrambled in all directions, disappearing into hiding places with remarkable speed. Myrrrthin sat up and scanned the room, stopping at the doorway where Ambrose’s second-in-command stood, in violation of all law and custom. Without a word, the young tom locked eyes with Myrrrthin. The summons was clear. The old cat took gallant, if hasty, leave of the females, and followed.
He found Ambrose sitting on the very edge of the loading dock, making not the slightest effort to hide either the tension in his body or the fact that every sense was cast to the edge of feline perception. “We may have a problem,” he said without turning. “A pack of adolescent demons have come across the border, and reports have them circling through the outbuildings. It’s not that uncommon, but this time the guards say their passage is marked with a scent that raises their fur and makes them uneasy.”
No sooner had he finished speaking when a young female approached at full speed and skidded to a halt directly below the loading dock. “The demons are close, my lord,” she managed to get out between gasps, “and have gathered around one of their rolling monsters. They seem to be watching the section of the border directly in front of them, as if waiting for something, and they each are holding a long, strange-smelling stick.”
The sound that issued from Myrrrthin’s thin body was like nothing Ambrose had ever heard. It snapped his head around, and made his whiskers tremble. The old cat stood rigid and quivering, his eyes wide and unfocused. A sudden impression crossed Ambrose’s mind: that the light was on, but Myrrrthin was nowhere near home.
At last the old cat spoke, his voice odd and distorted, as by distance and time. “Death rings us ’round. The appearance of safety is only that: appearance. Illusion.”
“This is hardly the time for riddles, Starfur,” Ambrose snarled impatiently. “What do you mean?”
Myrrrthin trembled harder, going deeper into whatever vision held him. It seemed to take him even farther away. “They hunt,” he finally said in the same odd voice, “but not for food. They hunt for sport, for the pleasure of the kill. We are their prey, and they’ve set a closing trap meant to drive us along a path of their choosing if it doesn’t consume us outright.” Then, between one heartbeat and the next, every bone in the ancient body seemed to dissolve, and he melted into a fur-covered heap.
Ambrose, too, was trembling as he nudged and licked Myrrrthin’s head. “I don’t understand, old one. What kind of trap? How do I save my people?”
The old cat’s eyes opened, glazed and still far away, but he pushed himself to a sitting position and shook his head as if to clear it. Before he could speak, something on the air, something acrid and irritating, caught his attention. He raised a twitching nose to sample it further. “The trap is sprung.”
Ambrose, too, tested the air, and a look of near panic widened his eyes. “Smoke.”
“The demons have laid fire all around us,” Myrrrthin explained as he pushed himself onto shaky legs, “except for one path they want us to see as the way to safety. That’s where they wait to deal us death with the sticks in their hands.” As if in illustration, several sharp cracking sounds and a short yowl, abruptly cut off, reached their ears.
“We must move quickly, my lord,” the old cat continued. “As dry as it’s been, brush and wood will catch quickly and burn hot. We have little time.” More sharp pops, all from one direction, were joined by small explosions and crackling from all around them. “We cannot go through, but we can go below. Call all your guards and hunters to you. Send everyone to the nursery.”