The Catswold Portal (37 page)

I
t was midnight, the battle was stilled by darkness. Siddonie made her way alone from her tent across the sleeping battlefield toward the red glow of the pit. Around her, exhausted soldiers slept. She could hear the occasional snort of a horse and the moans of the wounded. She approached the pit, lusting to touch the dark beast.

“Apep,” she said softly. “Eblis. Apollyon.” Powerfully she willed the dark beast to her. Willed it to invade the minds of her enemies. She stepped nearer the edge where flames licked and exploded, and suddenly she wanted to climb down the sheer sides and leap into the fires. She longed to embrace the black dragon.

But suddenly that desire struck terror through her; she drew away shaking and sweating.
She
was daughter of Lillith. The dark beast had no right to control her.
She
had the right to use it.
She—Siddonie
—she alone was heir to the primal dark.

T
he ponies jogged along steadily behind Braden's gray gelding. The Catswold folk from the upperworld, dressed in borrowed Netherworld leathers, were hardly distinguishable from Netherworld peasants. Except, on closer inspection, they had better styled haircuts, and the women had pierced ears and painted nails. They handled their horses passably; they had learned more quickly than Braden had thought possible. Likely it was their feline balance. The sturdy ponies had made good time across Affandar.

By now, the women had wiped off their lipstick and tied their hair back or slicked it under caps, and their manicured hands were dirty and blistered, and they carried sharpened shovels and axes and crudely made bows. Above them the Harpy circled impatiently.

For Braden, the upperworld had faded, the Netherworld was all that was real. The earth beneath him was solid. The hard stones under the gelding's hooves struck sparks. The smell of pine and juniper filled his nostrils. The cold rush of the river where they had stopped to water the horses had left his boots wet. The stone sky above him seemed totally normal, so that if he were again to face the emptiness of the upperworld sky he would feel too exposed.

He rode with one thought in mind, one goal. Melissa.

He turned once to urge on the pack pony he led. Each rider led a pack animal, heavily burdened with a long, cumbersome bundle.

And when suddenly the Harpy did a wingover and dove at
the horses, he responded at once, moving his mount on fast. “Kick those ponies,” he shouted, “get them moving!”

“The pit is beyond that mountain,” shouted the Harpy.

“We will camp at the crest. On the other side, the valley is thick with Affandar warriors.”

M
elissa, riding the upperworld stallion meant for Helsa, wearing the golden robe Helsa had worn, led the Catswold warriors into the dark tunnel. The green of the Netherworld night disappeared behind them. As they pushed into total blackness they brought spell-lights. The Griffon walked among them, his wings folded in the tight space; he was cross and nervous confined thus, and the Catswold warriors kept their distance from him. Melissa was surprised he had stayed with them.

The journey took all night. They stopped once, at the tunnel's deep springs, to water and rest the horses and feed them from the bags of grain they carried. It was well past midnight when they came up out of the black tunnel and turned south. The Griffon had burst out ahead of them, lifted away, and was gone.

Soon the stone sky grew red, reflecting the fires of the Hell Pit. Beyond the flaming pit burned hundreds of small fires in the camps of the two armies as the enemies waited, facing each other across an expanse of empty plain in the enforced truce of darkness. The air was filled with smoke.

Fear made Melissa's hands sweat on the reins, and with her uncertainty the stallion began to fuss and shiver. She could hear, ahead, occasional low voices and the muffled
cries of the wounded. They pushed on to the lip of the Hell Pit then drew back startled. The pit was broad here, and it seethed with liquid fire in rolling waves. But deep within the fire a blackness writhed—a dragon, its thick coils stretching away in both directions—humping, sliding, disappearing as the fires shifted. Melissa backed her trembling horse away.

Watching the dragon, they dismounted and led their balking mounts fast up the steep cliffs beside the pit. They entered a narrow overhead pass tunneling through the granite sky above the Hell Pit. The terrified horses went slowly, sweating and shivering. Melissa alternately fought her stallion and talked to him, drawing him on.

They came out of the tunnel and onto the battlefield in the first green light of approaching dawn, greeted by the crash of metal and by soldiers boiling out of the two camps. Hooves thundered as rebel troops swept in waves toward Siddonie's armies. Melissa's horse lunged and pawed, wanting to join battle. Already the fighting stretched for more than a mile, and the clashing and screams filled the valley. But suddenly an enchantment of terror hit the battlefield. The spell weakened Melissa as if water ran in her veins. Rebel horses bolted, their riders frozen with fear in the saddle to fall under the blades of Siddonie's army. All across the plain the rebel lines fell back. Fleeing horses stumbled over their fallen riders. Could this be Siddonie's magic? Did the dark queen, alone, have such power?

Fighting her fear she led the Catswold warriors straight into battle, though many upperworld Catswold drew back. Ahead, Siddonie loomed suddenly among her fighting men, the black stallion rearing and charging. Melissa gave the sign and leaned low in the saddle, and they charged the queen at a dead run. She saw Siddonie's warriors separate to surround the Catswold. This was Siddonie's plan. She would expect Helsa to draw back and be captured. She signaled again and her troops separated, swerving away in two arms circling the Affandar troops. She saw Siddonie's movement of surprise, saw her jerk her horse, saw her shout orders but couldn't hear the words.

Siddonie's soldiers wheeled to form a wider pincer. The Catswold warriors wheeled and cut them off. They had lost more of the upperworld Catswold; Melissa could see them, galloping away to safety. She could see also, behind Siddonie's troops, the rebel bands closing in. And suddenly a roar came from above and the Griffon dropped over her, sweeping low, knocking Affandar soldiers from the saddle. At the same moment Melissa charged, her soldiers with her. Beneath the Griffon's diving attacks they began to drive Siddonie's troops back. They cut the Affandar soldiers down and forced them into the swords of the pursuing rebels. Again and again the Griffon dove and they attacked, and with each sweep a wave of the queen's troops fell. Men lay dying. Loose horses pounded away. Melissa thought Siddonie was shouting a spell. But the queen, surrounded by enemies, shouted suddenly, “Truce! I want truce!”

The Catswold warriors paused, looking to Melissa.

“Truce,” Melissa breathed warily. Her hood was tight around her face, and in the confusion of battle surely Siddonie still thought she was Helsa. Was this the moment the two had planned, when Helsa would turn on her own troops and help kill them?

Siddonie rode forward alone to face the gold-hooded Catswold queen. But then she half-turned, aware of something behind her. And Melissa saw within the flames of the pit the black dragon rising up. Its thick body looked like a gigantic, endless tree rising. Its head touched the granite sky snaking, seeking. And now suddenly Siddonie recognized her, her face was transfixed with rage. Suddenly she dropped low over the saddle, her sword drawn, and charged Melissa. Melissa could see her lips moving in a spell, could feel the cold power weaken her, enervating and lulling her…

No!

She roused herself, grasping the Amulet shouting a spell against Siddonie, as their swords met.

Melissa felt Siddonie's blow like fire in her arm. She saw the Griffon dive to distract Siddonie, and she struck the queen, nearly unseating her. “Now, Griffon! Again!” He
dove and she struck again. The queen twisted. Her mount stumbled under the Griffon's driving weight, and the Griffon grabbed the queen's arm in his powerful beak, as Melissa struck the sword from her hand.

Facing Siddonie, Melissa shook back her hood, and opened her cloak to reveal the Amulet.

Siddonie went white, but then she laughed at her. “That is not the true Amulet! A useless toy. A common emerald.”

“Is it?” Melissa said softly. Then, “Speak to your armies, Siddonie. Tell your soldiers that you fight to free the Netherworld.”

Siddonie smiled and turned to face her armies. Her captains pressed their horses nearer. But when the queen tried to speak, she could not. She opened her mouth but her voice would not come.

Melissa said, “You cannot lie before the Amulet.” She watched Siddonie's rising uncertainty and anger. “Tell your soldiers, Siddonie, that you fight to free the Netherworld.”

The kings who had ridden with Siddonie were close around her now, her brother King Ithilel, King Moriethsten of Wexten, King Craysche and others. But as the gathered armies waited for the queen to speak, and as they realized the queen could not speak, Melissa saw one king then another draw back.

King Bedini of Ferrathil left Siddonie's side, then Hevveth of Chillings. Soon other kings turned away, and only four monarchs remained beside the queen of Affandar.

Melissa said, “Can't you speak to your armies, Siddonie? Can't you tell them they fight for freedom against the slave-making rebels?”

When Siddonie remained mute and the silence had stretched taut, some of Siddonie's own officers turned their horses away.

But other soldiers drew closer to her, watching their queen. And suddenly with no warning a dozen Affandar soldiers attacked Siddonie, grabbing her horse, trying to pull her from the saddle. Her stallion plunged. Siddonie screamed a spell that sent the men reeling, and sitting her
fighting horse, she laughed. But Melissa rode at her hard, grabbing the stallion's bridle.
“Tell them!”
she shouted, jerking the horse to her, her sword poised at Siddonie's throat. “Tell them what they fight for.”

When Siddonie tried to shout her lies her voice strictured and broke as if hands circled her throat.

“Tell them!” Melissa thrust her blade, blooding the queen's cheek.

“I'll tell them,” the queen shouted suddenly. She stood up in the saddle looking out at her armies. Her face was flushed, her eyes blazed, and she was laughing, a cold, brittle cry of sound. “You fought to become my slaves!

“You fought to enslave the Netherworld. To enslave yourselves.” Again she laughed, harsh and challenging. Standing tall in the stirrups, laughing in the faces of the kings who had followed her and in the faces of her soldiers, she shouted, “That is my power over you! Total power! You fought to become slaves to me. You have killed your brothers for me and have thanked me for the privilege of killing them!”

Her laughter broke as she shouted a spell toward the pit. At the same moment Melissa saw the Griffon dive directly for the pit, and as Siddonie's spell spilled across the battlefield, Melissa's blade was knocked from her hand and the queen lunged at her, her knife flashing as she pulled Melissa into the blade.

P
ain shot through Melissa's shoulder. She unsheathed her knife as the two horses lunged and spun. The queen struck her a glancing blow that nearly jolted her out of the saddle. But suddenly Siddonie hesitated, and Melissa was aware of silence around them. No soldier moved, all were staring beyond Siddonie.

Behind Siddonie the black dragon had risen up out of the pit, its coils humping above the flames. As the black beast towered against the stone sky it became a dozen serpents reaching and striking, then became one again. It lunged at them, its head scraping the sky, its eyes blazing with the Hell fires. Deep within its gaping mouth Melissa saw the Hell fires burning. Its roar rang with the tortured screams of the damned souls that were a part of it.

Melissa's horse was shivering, his eyes were white-rimmed, his nostrils distended. Siddonie sat her horse smiling, waiting, licking her lips as the serpent slid swiftly toward them across the battlefield.

It lunged at them like a mountain unleashed. Horses wheeled away, foot soldiers fled. But a dozen mounted soldiers attacked the beast, their spears striking at it like pins hitting a mountain. It snatched them up and drooled their blood. Melissa spun her horse, charging beside her troops. She saw the Griffon appear out of the smoke of the Hell Pit.

He dove at the dragon but the beast flung him aside. The Catswold troops charged the beast, and only absently did Melissa realize she was wounded, or pay attention to the faintness that gripped her. She thought her dizziness was
fear. But as she rode straight for the beast she heard Siddonie cry a changing spell.

The change hit her: she was suddenly cat, clinging to the saddle of the running horse, her knife gone, the black dragon coiled over her.

Her scream was a yowl. As she was lifted in the dragon's flaming mouth, she saw that all the Catswold warriors had changed. Around her hundreds of cats were sucked up from the saddle, fighting, twisting, into the black maw of the dragon. His body was like dense smoke. Choking, she tried to change to human and could not. She tried to bring a spell against the dragon and was powerless. The beast's shifting form revealed glints of stone sky that vanished again as around her cats screamed, falling against her. She thought she heard Braden shout her name and felt rage at the deception.

A louder shout made the beast pause. Now suddenly the suspended cats dropped twisting down as if scattered from a cloudburst. Cats dropped to the battlefield and fled, changing to human. She saw Siddonie near to her. The queen had gone dead white. She sat frozen in the saddle, staring off to the south.

The calico leaped to the back of a riderless horse and saw across the battlefield a group of riders approaching, running their scruffy ponies straight at the massed armies. She dug her claws into the saddle, unbelieving.

Fifty immense white banners, slung from poles, flapped above the running horses. Melissa heard from the massed armies a sigh of shock. Siddonie seemed unable to look away from the banners. Her hands trembled, and the reins dropped loose under her fingers as she faced their powerful magic.

Each banner was blazoned with Siddonie's face. A huge, lifelike portrait. The queen's face was repeated fifty times, and in the wind of the galloping horses the banners stirred and flapped and the faces seemed alive, twisting and grimacing.

The Affandar queen cringed in the saddle, diminished.

The serpent she had called from the pit grew thin in breadth and thinner in substance so the mountains showed plainly through its coils, and it began to blow like smoke back toward the pit.

The banners snapped. Siddonie's fifty faces writhed. Siddonie herself seemed powerless. The four kings who had remained beside her wheeled their horses and fled as if the power that held them had snapped. Siddonie kicked her horse, trying to flee too, but now her reins were held by her own warriors. She screamed and hit at them, her face a parody of the banner images. Her curses raked the air. And it was then that Melissa saw the image maker.

Braden rode standing in the saddle. She wanted to ride galloping to him. She brought the spell, but could not change from cat. She was wounded, her shoulder drenched with blood. She kneaded her claws uselessly as Siddonie's sword swept at her.

 

Braden saw the queen raise her sword. He spurred his horse, felt the unwieldy banner jerk in his hand. He hung on to it, riding hard for Siddonie as she lunged at the calico cat.

He swung the banner so hard Siddonie was knocked from the saddle. The calico's horse bolted, the little cat clinging to the saddle. “For Christ sake, Melissa! Change!”

 

Silently crying the spell, she was suddenly sent reeling up tall. She was awkwardly astride a racing horse; she snatched up the reins and pulled him up. Her right hand was clutching the Amulet.

She saw the smoky coils of the serpent twisting across the sky above the Pit, growing thinner as it descended down into the flames. Then light struck the battlefield, glancing through the serpent's coils. Light bathed both armies, and within the light shone a woman tall as the mountain. Her body was robed in gold. Her face was the face of cat—leonine, bold.

Sekhmet stood over the battlefield, her eyes burning with light. The serpent was gone, blown apart.

At Melissa's breast, the Amulet burned with light. And then Braden was holding her, his lips against her forehead. Together they watched the golden lion-woman, her glow embracing the warriors, watched her until the goddess vanished. And when at last Melissa looked up into Braden's eyes she saw that he was different. As if something lost long ago had been given back to him; as if the chasm between his own two worlds had been bridged.