The walls and floor of the tunnel were damp. Sickly-white roots, and bits of other things about which Fritti did not care to guess, hung down from the earthen ceiling. As they moved away from the entrance the light gradually dimmed, and it would have disappeared completely but for a faint phosphorescence of the soil that lined the burrow. They journeyed downward in faint, ghostly light, like the spirits of cats traveling in the void between stars.
Pouncequick, once underground, resumed his plodding and nearly lifeless mode. The clay beneath their paws stuck and crumbled between their pads. The silence was complete.
After some time they caught up with the other two Clawguard, Longtooth still carrying his soiled burden. So they continued: Fritti and Pouncequick, hemmed fore and hind by red claws, above and below by damp, solid earth.
It was impossible for Fritti to gauge the passing of time. The group, captors and captives, walked and walked, but the featureless soil never changed; the dim, nauseating glow of the tunnel earth neither waxed nor waned. On and on into the depths they passed, with no sound but their own breathing and an occasional incomprehensible exchange between the Clawguard. Tailchaser felt as if he had been in this dark hole forever. He began to slide in and out of a kind of dream. He thought of the Old Woods, the look of sunbeams slanting down to illuminate the forest floor... of running through the wonderfully fragrant, ticklish grasses with Hushpad—chasing and being chased, collapsing at last to nap in the summer warmth.
The cold, unexpected wriggling of an escaping worm beneath his paw jolted him back to darkness, and the tunnel. He could hear the harsh rasp of Scratchnail’s breath. He wondered if he would ever see sunlight again.
At length Fritti’s hunger overcame his reverie completely, and he began to pay more attention to the worms that squirmed through the moist earth of the burrow. After several attempts he caught one, and, with some difficulty managed to down it as he walked. It felt dreadful not to be able to stop pacing while he ate, but he feared the consequences of slowing down. Although it was a tricky business, he felt a little better for having had the morsel, and he caught another as soon as he could and ate that, too. He tried to pass the next one to Pounce, but the kitten paid no attention. After several fruitless attempts to force the wiggling mouthful on him, Fritti gave up and ate it himself.
The tunnel began to slope upward. After a short while the procession came to a small underground cavern, no more than a couple of jumps across, but high-roofed. Inside this cavern the air flowed a bit more freely, and when Scratchnail brought them to a halt Fritti was more than happy just to sit and breathe for a moment, and to rest his sore legs and paws. Wearily, he began to groom the worst of the mud and stones from between his pads, then turned his tongue to the wound on his shoulder. The blood had dried and the fur was matted stiff. It hurt when he cleaned it. Pouncequick sat motionlessly beside him, as if paralyzed; when Fritti turned and began to groom him, he submitted without a sound.
Scratchnail and the other two had been conversing in low tones at the far end of the cavern. Longtooth approached the two companions and dropped the unconscious form of Eatbugs beside them. Then, at a nod from Scratchnail, he turned and slipped away up the tunnel at the far entrance to the cave. Bitefast and the chief stretched their long, corded bodies on the floor of the earthen chamber and stared at their prisoners. Fritti—deciding that the best procedure was to ignore them as much as possible—continued to clean the dirt from Pouncequick’s fur and tend to the young cat’s many cuts and abrasions. Eatbugs groaned once and stirred, but did not awaken.
Finally, a muffled yowl came from the direction in which Longtooth had disappeared. At the urging of Scratchnail—in the form of a low snarl and a jerk of the head—Bitefast vanished up the tunnel, almost before the echoes had stopped echoing from the limestone walls. There was a commotion up the corridor. Fritti could hear the voices of Longtooth and Bitefast arguing. After a time they emerged into the cave dragging a limp, bulky burden. Scratchnail rose and ambled over on splayed paws to examine what they had brought.
“Found him where the branch tunnel opens up-ground into the valley wall, chief,” said Longtooth with a tongue-lolling grin. “Just like you smelled. Caught ‘im looking other way, then had to drag ’im down quick, before I got burned by the Fire-eye. By the Master, he’s a big one, isn’t he?” After all this speech Longtooth turned and self-consciously cleaned a wound on his flank.
Interested despite himself, Tailchaser leaned forward, staring in the dim cavern light. The bundle that the two Clawguard had dragged in was some kind of animal. A low sound of pain issued from the crumpled figure.
Scratchnail looked over at Fritti. “Come have a gape, little mud-Squeaker,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. This one won’t hurt you!” The chiefs laugh scraped through the rock chamber. Tailchaser moved hesitantly forward.
Lying on the wet stone floor was a large Growler, bleeding from several wounds on his stomach and face. As Tailchaser peered past Scratchnail, the dog’s eyes opened and stared blearily. He was as large as the Clawguard themselves; Fritti was impressed and frightened to know that one of the monster cats could take a fik‘az this size by himself. The Growler blinked—vainly trying to keep the blood out of his eyes—and wheezed painfully. Something inside was broken and the animal was dying. Saddened and disturbed, Fritti turned back toward his corner.
Longtooth looked up from his wound-licking and said to Scratchnail: “We don’t have to give any to these”—indicating Fritti and Pouncequick—“do we?”
Scratchnail looked at the pair—Fritti, wary and nervous; Pouncequick, paralyzed and silent.
“We just have to get them to Vastnir alive. We don’t have to share our little treats with them.” So saying, Scratchnail shot his scarlet claws and made a swift disemboweling stroke across the belly of the fik‘az. Then, although the horrible agonized cries had not stopped, the Clawguard began to feed. Fritti curled up around Pouncequick and tried to ignore the sounds.
When the Claws had finished their meal, covering the cavern floor with grisly debris, they slept. At Scratchnail’s canny direction, Bitefast and Longtooth had dragged their bloated bodies over to the entrances. When they rolled over onto their backs to sleep, legs in the air, they effectively blocked off any route of escape. Tailchaser could only lie next to Pounce and Eatbugs helplessly while the beasts digested their prey.
Fritti had no idea how long he lay beside his two silent companions, listening to the gurgling slumbers of their captors. He drifted into fitful sleep, and was awakened by a strange sound. At first, in his groggy state, he imagined he was dying, and that the carrion birds had come down from the sky to strip his bones. He thought he heard them all around him, bargaining solemnly over the choicest bits. Their voices were harsh, low and cold....
Coming fully awake, he listened to the eerie sounds filling the cavern. These were no great old carrion birds.
Still stretched on their backs, sprawled against cavern walls of moist stone, the Clawguard were singing.
‘A day will come
Above the mound
No light will shine
Upon the ground-
And from the deep
Where Old Ones sleep
Our Folk will creep
Without a sound....
No more to hide
And wait for night
No more to shun
The hot daylight
The sun will die
And you and I
Will upward fly
To hunt and bite....
The Sun, the Sun
The Sun will die
And dying slip
From out the sky
And in the black
We will take back
All that we lack
The Sun will die....“
On and on it went, the hideous chanting voices groaning out the song of darkness and hatred and revenge—night creeping over the world, blood on the stones and earth, and the Folk of the mound rising up,
holding sway over all.
Next to Fritti, Eatbugs’ eyes snapped open. He began to rise, then lay back and listened, unmoving and unspeaking, as the song droned on. Tailchaser saw him shake his soiled head, wearily, painfully, and then close his eyes again. The chant of the Clawguard seemed to have no end. After some time, Tailchaser fell back into oppressive, stone-heavy sleep.
20 CHAPTER
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city, lying alone
Far down among the dim West ...
—Edgar Allan Poe
Beyond the cavern the tunnels seemed to grow warmer. Fritti knew that aboveground it was winter; snow and freezing rain were falling. Here, deep in the earth—how deep Tailchaser had no way of knowing—the air was becoming thick with heat and moisture.
Eatbugs was up and moving now. He mumbled quietly to himself as he walked, but otherwise showed no signs of resistance to their captors. Longtooth, his muzzle not yet completely healed from the swipe that Eatbugs had given him, was taking great delight in harassing the old cat, who gamely resisted all attempts by the Guard to enrage him.
Tailchaser, trudging on leaden paws, once again began to feel the throb of the mound. Here, beneath the ground, the sensation was different, the vibration digging deeper into his bones and nerves. The pulse of the mound seemed lower and more basic—all-pervading, but, strangely, more natural. Tailchaser knew that they were approaching their destination.
“You can feel it, can you?”
The harsh croak made Fritti jump. Scratchnail was following close behind, watching him, the unpleasant yellow eyes observing his every movement.
“I see that you’ve started to hear the song of Vastnir. You’re a sharp-sensing little bug, aren’t you, star-face?” The chief moved up to Tailchaser’s side. The massive, thick-muscled form looming over him intimidated Fritti, and made it difficult to speak.
“I ... I feel something,” he stammered. “I felt it before... above ground.”
“Well,” Scratchnail leered, “aren’t you the clever-quick one?! Don’t you worry... there’ll be some Folk who’ll pay plenty of attention to a smart young tom like you where we’re going—more attention than you’ll like, perhaps.” With a cold, bleak grin that exposed few teeth, the Clawguard chief dropped back to pace behind Fritti once more. The skin around the young cat’s whiskers itched and crawled. He didn’t want anyone or anything more interested in him than was already the case. He hurried forward to catch up with Eatbugs and Pouncequick. The earth throbbed.
Soon the tunnel began to broaden. Every hundred or so jumps now, the company passed branching tunnels or caves—it was difficult to tell which, since they were just dark holes in the wall of the main shaft. The air continued to warm, a damp heat that made Fritti and his companions feel sluggish. Eatbugs twitched his head from side to side as if to throw off something binding.
“Here now, back to the holes—never do, never do ...” The mad old tom looked imploringly, first at the unresponsive Pouncequick, then at Fritti, who could only shake his head. “All this bim-bam bashing and gnashing... can’t... can’t... ?” Eatbugs rolled his eyes and subsided into muttering. Tailchaser pushed at Pouncequick gently with his head.
“Did you hear him, Pounce? What do you think of all this, hmmm? Got your whiskers up, does it?” Fritti waited vainly for a response, then tried again. “What a story this will make when we get back to Meeting Wall, won’t it? D‘you think the Folk will believe us?” After a moment, Pouncequick raised his head and looked at Fritti plaintively.
“Where’s my friend Roofshadow?” he asked. His voice was so quiet that Tailchaser had to cock his ears forward to make out the words.
“We’ll find her, Pounce, I promise. I swear on my tail name—we’ll get away from here and find her!”
The kitten looked at him for a moment with a puzzled expression, then lowered his gaze to the ground once more.
Skydancer’s Ears and Tears! Fritti cursed himself. When am I going to stop making promises I have not the slightest chance of keeping? Still, he thought, I had to say something to Pounce. He has the look of someone who’s going to lie down and float to the Fields Beyond any moment. At least I got a word or two out of him.
Now Tailchaser noticed that the sound of the tunnel had changed. Below the near-silent padding of their paws, he thought he could discern a thin wash of voices—cat voices, but very distant.
Bitefast, the nearest Guard, turned and hissed: “We’ll be home, soon. Your home, too—for a short while, anyway.”
Finally the underground path widened again and turned downward. The pulsing had become constant and almost familiar, and the voices Fritti had noticed earlier sounded louder and louder. Then, when it seemed as if any moment they must come upon the source, Scratchnail stopped the procession.
“Now,” he said, fixing Fritti and his comrades with a hard stare, “we are about to enter Vastnir by one of the Lesser Gates. If you make any movement to escape I will tear you to ribbons, and be pleased to do it. And just in case you decide to try your luck” —here he narrowed his gaze on Eatbugs, who turned his eyes away uncomfortably—“even if you’re fast and tricky enough to get by me—which I doubt—you’ll come to wish you’d died at my claws, I promise you. The Clawguard are not the worst who home in the Vastnir Mound.”
Scratchnail turned to his fellows. “And you two. Remember, no one is to interfere—especially not the Toothguard. The prisoners stay with us until I say otherwise, understood? It had better be.”
They all followed Scratchnail downward, and shortly rounded a bend in the tunnel to find themselves in a wide entranceway before the gate. Silhouetted at the end of the tunnel by a fitful blue-green light stood two massive Clawguard, silent and terrible, bigger even than Fritti’s captors. On either side of the entrance they guarded, on small piles of raised earth, were skulls. One was of an enormous Growler, the eyesockets dark as sorrow. The other was the skull of a large horned beast. All four of these sentries looked down pitilessly on Tailchaser and his companions as they were led through.
As he passed beneath the arched tunnel mouth into the depths of Vastnir, Fritti felt a strange sensation. As he had in his catmint nightmare, he began to experience a burning feeling on his forehead. Whatever it might be, though, neither his friends nor the Clawguard took any notice of him.
Beyond the threshold was a vision that would stay with Tailchaser as long as he lived.
Before them sprawled a vast cavern, the roof as high above as the treetops of Rootwood. It was lit by the luminescent earth they had seen in the tunnel, and also by the faint blue glow of stones that protruded down through the ceiling rock. The phantom light rendered all in the cavern into spirits and vaulting shadows.
Below, on the cavern floor, countless cats moved back and forth like termites in rotten wood. Most of them appeared to be normal Folk, although their faces were so full of despair and pain that they seemed almost a different race. Among them moved the Clawguard, lumpish and huge, directing the streaming, insectlike hordes as they crept to and fro.
It’s like some horrible dream of Firsthome, Fritti thought.
The stench of fear and blood and unburied me‘mre rose up on the hot air currents and filled his nostrils, choking him. With a snarl, Scratchnail herded them down to the cave floor, across the jutting rocks and warm, moist soil. They maneuvered among the lines of cats, brushing past Folk who did not even look up, but only plodded on toward whatever grim destination the ubiquitous Clawguard were leading them to.
As they passed one group Fritti saw a smallish cat, eyes and ribs bulging, who appeared to be sick. He coughed and staggered, then collapsed to the stones. Before Fritti could move to help him, a Clawguard shouldered his way past and bent over the sick one. Then the brute picked him up by the neck and shook him violently. Tailchaser could hear the sound of bones snapping; the Claw flung the broken body to the side with an impatient head-flip, and the line of cats moved on. Tailchaser stared aft
er them, then over at the crumpled body lying unnoticed and unmourned in the dirt. His hatred flared, then settled into a low flame, banked deep inside himself. He, also, turned away.
As Scratchnail’s procession reached the far side of the great cavern and was approaching the gaping maw of another tunnel, a thin, piercing voice called out: “Ssscratchnail!” The sound seemed to come from one of the innumerable caves in the rock wall before them. The chief halted the group as a dim shape appeared in the darkness of a cave mouth.
“What do you want of me?” Scratchnail snapped angrily. His voice held an odd intonation.
“Hissblood wants to sssee you, Sscratchnail,” the thin voice said, sibilant and mocking. As the shape in the grotto spoke, Fritti could see the gleam of its teeth, but no reflected shine of its eyes.
“That’s a laugh!” the chief snarled. “Why should I care anyway?”
In the dark grotto the teeth were bared again. “Hissblood wantss to know who your prissonerss are. There wasss to be no more taking of captivesss. That was the understanding, no?”
“My business is between the Fat One and myself, and there’s no room for you crawlers to go sticking your hairless snouts into it. If Hissblood wants to have any dealings with me I’ll be in the lower Catacombs later on.” Scratchnail pivoted and walked away.
“He will meet you there,” said the thin voice, and the sound of deathly merriment came from the shadowed cave.
Entering the huge tunnel in the cave wall, Longtooth hissed at Scratchnail: “What do the Toothguard want with these, anyway?”
The chief turned on him with a growl. “You keep your muzzle shut!”
Longtooth asked no more questions, and they went some distance down the tunnel in silence. Scratchnail finally halted the group at a widening of the way. The chief pushed Eatbugs and Pouncequick roughly to one side, then turned to Bitefast.