Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

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 Netherworld, 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.

Chapter 68

The 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.