The Feline Wizard

CHAPTER 5

Torbat looked up in surprise, then turned his head away, watching Matt out of the corner of his eye. “Did you not say this familiar of yours is a demon?”

“The first human who thought of him called him that,” Matt snapped. “He got the term wrong—Max is really an elemental, not a demon. But he knows when somebody is lying. Tell the truth—who's this Kala Nag you spoke of?”

Torbat sighed and gave in. “She is the female demon who appeared to chastise me for sending this woman away from Maracanda. There was nothing to trouble her while the child stayed with Prester John, but now she says the chit may meddle in her plans. She appeared to me in a dream and told me she was sending monsters to tear me limb from limb for my foolishness!”

“Oh. So it wasn't fear of Prester John that made you flee? Say, where'd you find this Kala Nag?”

The shaman gazed off into the distance, and Matt had the eerie feeling the man was drawing on the memories of his ancestors, as though they lived in him still. His voice became remote and emotionless. “She was a goddess once, albeit a bloodthirsty one—the hag who rode travelers to weigh them down, who caused the earth to shake and tremble underfoot, who devoured her own offspring. When the gentle Buddha strode into the steppe, she retired hissing, and your Christ obscured her memory. Now, though, she demands attention again! She wakes, she tells all who remember her that she endures, that she will have her sacrifices once more and will bestow power upon those who worship her!”

Matt stared at the man, shaken—he sounded like one of the converted, not a fugitive. “Why did she think Balkis could be a threat?”

“Not the girl alone,” the shaman said, his voice still remote, “but another with her. By herself, she is a cipher, meaningless, harmless—and in Maracanda she would be only that, would never find the Other. This I did not know. Fool that I was, I thought only of weakening Prester John by stealing away his wizard-niece. I did not know that Kala Nag was a threat far mightier than any strength the princess could lend Prester John.”

Matt felt a chill down his spine—he knew that Prester John and his armies were all that held back the barbarian hordes, that with him armed and ready at their backs, the barbarians dared not ride farther west than their own steppes. “I take it Kala Nag is making progress at winning back the hordes.”

“The gur-khan has turned his back on Ahriman, who failed him,” the shaman reported, “and makes sacrifice to Kala Nag.”

“Then so do all his followers.”

Torbat nodded. “All. Certain chieftains among the Polovtsi, among the Kazakhs and the Manchus, the Uzbeks, the Mongols, the Kirghiz, and even some among the Turkomen have begun to worship her again.”

Matt shuddered at the thought of the juggernaut that was growing out on the steppe, and wondered how a little girl like Balkis could halt its progress. “That means there aren't going to be very many places for you to hide.”

The shaman gave a bleak nod. “Still shall I flee and seek a bolt-hole. The fight is not done until the life is gone.”

“Good luck, then,” Matt said. He felt so sorry for the man that there was no question of not forgiving him. After all, he might have saved the civilized world by sending Balkis away, though he hadn't intended it. “May the wind be at your back.”

The shaman came down out of his trancelike state and stared at him. “You do not seek to punish me?”

“I think that's well in hand,” Matt said.

* * *

The mists dissipated and Matt slipped his wand back into its scabbard. Prester John's workroom materialized around him as the fog vanished.

The king stared. “You do not have the sorcerer?”

“Only his information,” Matt said. “He was running for his life, and I didn't want to watch his death come upon him.”

“What death is that?” Prester John asked, alert for hidden meanings.

“It goes by the name of Kala Nag,” Matt said. “Give me a drink and I'll tell you about her.”

Prester John had a stock of fruit juice in his workroom, which Matt found refreshing. The carafe sat between them on a small table as he told the king of his encounter with the shaman. When he was done, Prester John asked, “So this barbarian goddess has became a demon?”

“Call her what you like.” Matt shrugged. “Goddess or demon, she's devoted to destruction and misery. If people worship her as a goddess, that probably says more about them than it does about her”

“Certainly her behavior would merit the title demon' from any civilized person,” Prester John agreed. “Still, it is not they whom she gathers, but the barbarians.” He frowned in thought. “How can our little Balkis be a bulwark against so terrible a being?”

“Well, she may not be a giant physically, but she has a great heart,” Matt reminded him. “Besides, she's only supposed to become a problem if she links up with this ‘Other’ Torbat mentioned.”

Prester John looked up in surprise. “Would that not be yourself?”

“It could,” Matt said thoughtfully. “I probably wouldn't have come back to Maracanda if you hadn't called me to help find her—but if that's so, we'd better see about my joining her as soon as I can.”

“We must recover her quickly in any case,” Prester John said grimly. “You say that Torbat knew where he sent the child, but not where she arrived?”

Matt nodded. “Right. Balkis managed to come up with a counterspell just as he was launching her.” He couldn't help a smile of pride in his apprentice.

Neither could John, though his smile of pride was for his niece, not his student. “She did well and has the courage of her family. Still, we cannot know where she is.”

“There is that drawback,” Matt admitted.

Prester John nodded thoughtfully. “That is why my earlier spells yielded no hint of Balkis' location—she had traveled through the Void, not been carried for miles drugged on the back of a barbarian pony.”

“But now that you know she went through it, you can find her?”

“It may be.” Prester John rose to take a yard-wide bowl from a shelf, then lifted a waterskin down from a hook. He carried both to the sand floor, set the bowl on the central disc where Matt had stood, and filled it half full of water.

Then he took a small bottle from his sleeve, shook a few drops into the bowl, and finished filling it. A lovely fragrance wafted to Matt's nostrils. With a shock, he recognized Balkis' scent. Prester John must have taken a sample of her perfume.

He had taken one of her scarves, too—Matt watched him twist it into an arrow and lay it carefully in the bowl, then step back off the sand floor to chant a verse that commanded the silken cylinder to point toward she who had worn it. Matt admired the improvisation—Prester John had used the Law of Contagion, that objects once in contact remained in contact over distance, and the Law of Sympathy, that like will to like, and both strengthened by the same symbols that had oriented him earlier in finding the direction Torbat had gone. Matt stood on tiptoe so he could see down into the bowl. Sure enough, gentle wavelets moved there as the perfume rippled into a pattern pointing toward the distant trace of scent that Balkis wore, and the scarf swung to aim toward the skin that it had touched.

“Almost due southeast, but a little more southerly than easterly.” Prester John turned back to Matt with a look of apology. “I regret that is the best I can do, Lord Wizard.”

“It's a huge help, Your Majesty. At least I have some idea which way to go now.”

But Matt couldn't help wondering how far he would have to travel. Certainly miles, or Balkis would have come back already by herself. Afghanistan? India? Indonesia? Australia? He shuddered at the thought that he might have to go all the way to Antarctica, and hoped Balkis had been wearing a warm nightgown.

The next morning, they attended Mass in Prester John's chapel, bigger than most churches, where 365 abbots took daily turns saying the prayers and administering the sacraments in the Nestorian rite, quite different from the one Matt knew. Then Matt left the city by the southern gate, walked a mile, stepped off the road into a convenient grove, and recited the verse that would call Stegoman. The dragon arrived within minutes. Matt mounted, and together they took off to search for a lost cat.

Balkis awoke as the moon rose, feeling far better than she had before, though still lethargic. Seeing the brownie-woman, weaving pine needles and singing a charm, Balkis came fully alert.

Looking up, the brownie-woman saw Balkis' open eyes and smiled. “Are you healed now, maiden?”

Balkis was startled by the question. How had this wee one known her for human when she was in cat's guise?

“The spirit of this grove saw you transform,” the brownie explained, as if Balkis had spoken aloud. “I am Lichi. Have you appetite?”

The question raised a sudden gnawing hunger in Balkis, who nodded. Then, realizing there was no point in hiding her abilities when the brownie already knew she was human, Balkis said, “Most hungry.”

The brownie frowned. “What speech is this?”

Balkis had spoken in the tongue of Allustria, where she grew up, and she recognized the language the brownie spoke as very much like one she had learned while traveling with the Lord Wizard. (The thought of him still made her heart leap.) They had stayed a few weeks in a Parsi village, and Balkis had absorbed the language.

She tried it now. “I am most hungry, kind spirit.”

“Ah! Those words, I understand.” Lichi put aside her weaving and rose. “Come, then.”

She led Balkis to a small hole under the roots of one of the stunted pines. Balkis sniffed and caught the scent of mouse as the brownie knelt and cupped her hands around her mouth to call down into the burrow's back door, making a dreadful ghostly noise. Seconds later a mouse shot out, straight into Balkis' claws. When she had finished the morsel, the brownie led her to another burrow, then another.

As Balkis was licking her chops, the sprite asked, “Are you well enough to travel now?”

“I think I am.” Balkis took a wobbly step but said gamely, “I shall walk as long as I may.”

“Come, then.” Lichi turned away.

It was a long walk for a cat whose strength had been depleted by injury. Lichi led the way, other Wee Folk appearing around Balkis as she followed. Several times, Balkis had to stop to rest, and the brownies stroked her, lending magical energy, and their strength revived her. She thanked them and rose to stumble on. During one of these rests she asked Lichi, “Am I in Hind or Persia?”

“Neither,” Lichi said with a frown. “You have come into Bactria. Why would you think this was Persia?”

“Because your language is akin to one I learned from some Parsi folk,” Balkis explained, “at least, close enough so that I can understand if you speak slowly, though there seem to be many words I do not know.”

“Ah.” Lichi nodded. “Well, there were Persians who came riding here in conquest, long ago—then Greeks after them, though our mountaineers swallowed them up in time. Then the Persians came again to conquer, but the mountain folk swallowed them, too, over the years. They have left something of their language behind, though. Come, you must see some of our mountain folk.”

Lichi led her to a farmstead, though Balkis found it amazing that a house, barn, and storage sheds had been built on such sharply sloping land. Even more surprising, the buildings stood straight, though they were of a style Balkis found most strange—circular and covered with earth, with grass growing on the roofs, yellow now, in winter. There were fenced enclosures near the outbuildings, but all were empty. “The cows, goats, and swine are closed in for the night,” Lichi explained, “but there are holes enough for a brownie, or a little cat. Come.”

Balkis, tottering with weariness, followed as best she could. She fought down the urge to tell the little woman how queasy she was feeling, how weak, or that the headache had started pounding between her ears again.

However, Lichi seemed to know. She led Balkis through a gap where two boards failed to join near the ground, into the warmth and earthy scents of a barn. “Only a little farther now, sweet kit,” she coaxed, and other brownies crowded close to encourage and lend energy by touches. They brought her near a sleeping cow, and Balkis had to fight the urge to shy away as she passed between its hooves. Lichi reached up to pull on a teat, and warm milk splashed in a puddle in front of Balkis. The delicious aroma filled her head and she stretched to lap it up eagerly.

The cow came awake with a startled moo and turned to see who had so rudely awakened her, but Lichi soothed her with strokes on her hock. “There now, O Sweetest of Kine-kind, ye of beautiful eyes! Lend some little of thy milk to a poor starving kit, we beseech thee! Nay, kindest and most gentle of cattle, be not afrighted nor incensed, for such generosity to a poor injured creature will surely see thee reborn as a human babe when thou hast died!”

Mollified more by the tone than the words, the cow turned back to her manger and took a mouthful of hay, suffering a few more pulls upon her teats with good grace. She hadn't really thought about reincarnation, of course. In fact, she hadn't thought about much of anything but food and warmth since her last calf had grown and gone away.

Full of milk, Balkis suddenly felt the weight of her wounds and her long night's walk. She staggered; it took three brownies to hold her up and keep her moving while Lichi led the way again, saying urgently, “Not here, not here! A cow might step on you! The farmer and his sons might see you! Nay, come farther back, sweet kit, and higher, to hide!”

So, with Lichi's gentle urging, Balkis moved up into the haymow, where Lichi tucked her in among the straw. Balkis' eyes fluttered closed, but Lichi said urgently, “The farmer has five sons. His wife died of a fever when the youngest was three years old, and without her to temper them, they have grown into a rough and coarse household indeed! Be sure you wait until they have done their chores and gone out to their day's work before you come to hunt spilled milk. Sleep now, pretty kit—sleep until night falls and the men have gone in to their suppers.” Then she stroked Balkis and crooned a lullaby that was in fact a spell, assuring that the maiden would indeed sleep.

By nightfall Stegoman had reached the mountains that formed the southeast corner of Prester John's domain.

“Sun's almost set,” Matt pointed out as they coasted through the air. “Time to camp.”

“And hunt!' Stegoman said emphatically. “Flying enhances my appetite.”

“Must be all that fresh air,” Matt opined. “That mountain-top off to the right looks nice and secure.”

“That one that seems to be a cup among sawteeth? Aye, the sides are sheer. The mortal would be skilled indeed who could climb it.”

“A skilled mountain climber or a skilled magician?”

“Indeed so.” The dragon spiraled down, cupped air with his wings, then stretched his legs to touch rock, keeping his wings spread while Matt slid down. “I trust you have wood in your pack and water by your side?”

“Yeah—charcoal and a waterskin. I thought we might be camping in some inhospitable places.” Matt took out his supplies as he spoke and began to lay a fire. “Even brought dried beef and hardtack.”

Stegoman shuddered. “I will take my beef hot and fresh, thank you.”

“If you can find it. If you can't, you should be able to manage dinner on a couple of bucks.”

“Deer would be tasty,” Stegoman allowed, “but I fear I shall have to make do with mountain goats.”

“Not very appetizing,” Matt sympathized. “As a meal, that's a sham.”

“Or perhaps a chamois?” Stegoman licked his lips. “Well, we shall see what moves. Dine well, wizard.” He leaped up atop a tooth of rock, poised a moment, then plunged off. Matt held his breath, though he knew that the air was as natural to the dragon as to any bird. He let it out in a sigh as Stegoman rose over the peak, spiraling on a thermal, up and up to catch the last rays of the setting sun.

Then something else caught those rays, something else winged and saurian. “Look out!' Matt shouted. “Natives!”

Stegoman's head swiveled. He saw the other dragon and turned to face it, hovering and drawing breath, his belly expanding, ready to belch fire.

The local was a little longer than Stegoman and more slender, scales glinting where the sun rays touched it, reddish-brown where he was dark green. Furious, it cried, “Aroint thee, worm! How dare you come within my range?”

“I only seek a night's rest on my route south,” Stegoman returned. “If you cannot afford me that, glitterscale, you are selfish indeed.”

“Selfish or not, these chamois are mine, and you have no right to take them without the asking!”

“Very well, then,” Stegoman said, irked. “May I partake of your mountain goats?”

“No!” the other dragon snapped. “Snake, get thee hence!”

“It would take many hens indeed to make a meal for a dragon.” Stegoman's impatience increased. “I would be loath to steal an ox from the farmers nearby.”

“Do, and they shall come hunting me! How now, crocodile! Would you give all our kind infamy?”

Stegoman said evenly, “Till now, I had never met a dragon who feared the human folk.”

“Fear! Do you think I fear?” The red dragon shot closer, then danced, tilting from side to side a dozen yards from Stegoman's nose.

The green dragon stared, catching his breath—bracing for attack.

“If I fear not an overweening lizard such as yourself,” the red dragon demanded, “why should I fear mere soft and feeble folk?”

“Then why should you care if they hunt you?” Stegoman asked reasonably.

“Because there are so many of them,” the stranger answered, “and in their cowardice, they may set ambushes or even stake out poisoned steers.”

“Hey, now!” Matt called in protest.

The red dragon swung about and stared at Matt, eye gleaming, then said to Stegoman, “I had wondered why you settled, then flew again! How now, serpent—would you pollute my mountains with weak grubs who could never aspire so high by themselves?” Then the dragon dove at Matt.

“Let my friend be!” Stegoman bellowed in real anger, and shot after.