Catopolis

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 cu

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 sca

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 ca

Ambrose nodded to several young toms, who streaked away in all directions, then followed Myrrrthin inside. “What are you thinking?”

“There are more kittens than mothers to carry them in the short time we have before this place begins to burn. Each cat, male and female alike, will have to take a kitten to the hiding place.”

“Males do not ferry kittens,” Ambrose huffed.

“They do if you expect to have subjects when this is over,” Myrrrthin snapped back.

“But carry them where? What hiding place?”

“That,” Myrrrthin replied, “is what I’m going to find out.”

“The females won’t allow it,” the younger cat yelled at Myrrrthin’s retreating tail.

“You’re the alpha. Convince them.”

The memories he followed were dimmer than the dusty light through which he moved as swiftly as age-stiffened joints allowed. They came as if remembered from someone else’s life lived in safety and love and years gone. But the farther Myrrrthin went, the stronger his memories became, the tighter his grasp on that other life, and he followed them until he found the door he sought.

He sent a thankful thought to Bast that the door hadn’t been shut tight. It was unlatched, and a bare sliver of a crack separated door from jamb. He tore out claws on both front paws convincing long-rusted hinges to give him an opening large enough to get his head through, ripped holes in his fur and bruised his shoulders wrestling the opening wide enough that he could squeeze the rest of his body through.