CatTale
by Kristopher Gibbons
Copyright 1996, 2008
This story is a work of fiction. It often contains references to both sexual and violent behaviour, along with expressions of physical affection and compassion. If you find this type of story offensive, or if you are underage and it is illegal for you to read it, please exit now. All characters are fictional and in no way related to any persons living or deceased. Any such similarity is purely coincidental and uncanny.
This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written consent of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the provisions of their submission guidelines but it may not be copied or archived onto any other site without the direct consent of the author.
I can be contacted at Bookwyrm6@yahoo.com
How I pronounce the names: Pwerid - (p-where-id) Shaleton - (Shall-et-tun) Tuenn - (Tiu-en) Krilwkut - (Krill-e-cut) Ferikgroeln - (fair-ic-gruln) _________________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER THREE
A scream jolted out, like an amplified echo of the Temple bell, strong with pain and terror. Tuenn bolted blearily awake with a half-strangled shout. He sat upright and swivelled his head around with eyes still sleep sodden. Pwerid gripped him about the waist and peered across the hall, as a second cry swelled out from Hultten's room.
From their bed, the kitchener saw the overseer's head slam against the floor, just beyond their doorway. Torchlight etched agony on each taut muscle of the overseer's blood-spattered face. Nonplussed, Pwerid watched Hultten stretch out a pleading hand toward the hall, stretch it away from whatever doom now had him. And he died. Like a puppet on strings, or one of the birds Pwerid might stuff for the Master's meals, Hultten's carcass jerked and jostled under the continued manhandlings of its hidden assailant. Glaring hall torches failed to illuminate an attacker, as Hultten-like screams savaged through other parts of the manor.
Jarred from his shock by the more distant cries, Pwerid realized what he had been watching: The dead overseer was being devoured.
Tuenn started for the hearth and its wood-stoker, then halted, still on the bed. Something had rushed through the window facing the doorway; only a rapid pattering betrayed its presence. Weighed down by dread, Pwerid turned and looked. A four-footed slice of night, onyx-eyed and jet-furred, stood between them and the hearth.
The creature looked as tall as a man, with a lean, supple form covered in sable fur. Blood dripped from its muzzle and stained its foreclaws. The sheer size of the animal stunned Pwerid, and the menace in the red drivel trickling from its jaws struck him with stomach-clenching fear. Though he had never seen one before, he knew immediately what faced them: Ralurh, daemon-beasts, those 'Justice-seekers of the Eastern Wilds' out of grandmother's hopes, had come to fierce and deadly life.
The snarling beast moved in an arc around the side of the bed. Pwerid emerged from his momentary stupor and imitated the cat, hoping it would join its companion feasting on the other side of the doorway. Though repeatedly called 'Justice-seekers' in the legends they prowled, the 'justice' they dealt fit no framework of law Pwerid ever heard of, Hramal or Nikraan. So even as he nervously flanked the enormous beast, acknowledging the terrible beauty in its lithe and deadly form, Pwerid could not help but wonder why it had ventured out of its obscurity to wreak death here. Tuenn sat crouched on the foot of the bed, in a repetition of Pwerid's earlier paralysis. The creature seemed to share Tuenn's fascination, its hunter's gaze fixed solely on his branded, sweating head. Pwerid might have been the wind, or a tree, of no consequence.
Just as he saw the killer tense, Pwerid swung the bedcloths up into its path. The ralur jumped. Startled by the leap, Tuenn fell back, but off the cot. The ralur quickly freed itself and, a hand's-breadth away, focused its obsidian stare on the trembling, fear-dazed kitchener. The creature's warm breath, sickening with the stench of blood, bathed Pwerid's face for a frantic, heart-squeezing moment. Making no noise beyond a sodden pant, the ralur backed off the bed and started toward Tuenn.
When Pwerid saw the beast's goal, he did his own leap off the bed and blanketed the slave with his body. Tuenn protested, all desperate sounds and no words, and grappled with the cook to reverse positions. Pwerid, though not as thick thewed as Tuenn, held to his purpose.
"Don't struggle!" he hissed. "Perhaps it won't touch us if it thinks us dead already." His view of Hultten told him otherwise; but he hoped Tuenn's sleep-dulled eyes had not registered the overseer's fate.
He felt sure Tuenn knew better. The shivering of the kitchener's body, a bone-deep quavering, and the anticipatory grimace he could not wipe from his face, all gave the lie to his words.
Expecting the ralur's disemboweling stroke at any moment, Pwerid cried out when he felt a sudden jab against his side. The creature had pawed at him, he realized, but with its claws retracted. Two more times the monstrous cat batted at him, thrusting without using its talons. When the kitchener did not move, the beast sidled up to him. The sleek ralur bent its head down, latched on to Tuenn's arm, and began to pull in earnest. Frantic, Pwerid swatted at the beast's nose until it retreated. When the creature merely snarled at him, a wild surmise came into Pwerid's mind.
"Tuenn. Curl up under me! Just curl up under me!"
Wild-eyed and barely comprehensible, Tuenn said. "Let me try for the fire and the hearth-rod!"
Pwerid rattled his head in negation. "No. That thing will gut you before you could reach it. Bunch up under me!"
Reluctantly, Tuenn complied, his cheeks glistening with tears in the torchglow. 'This is the race that conquered us?' Pwerid thought, his terror coming out in anger and flippancy. 'What is he crying for? If I'm wrong, then I'm dinner, not him.'
At once sensuous and terrifying, the ralur prowled around the two men, and snarled its frustration. One time in its circuit it jabbed at the kitchener with its claws; a brief push, an attempt to scare or intimidate, leaving only a light puncture or two. Failing still to dislodge Pwerid, the beast paced restlessly around the two, rumbling and growling. Its restless tail signaled its agitation.
His head aligned toward the doorway, Pwerid saw the overseer's bane stalk in from the corridor. It took in the tableau, growled to its twin, and bounded out the window. With a switch of its tail and a last angry rumble, their own attacker leaped after the first and melted into the night.
The kitchener took deep, shuddering breaths and collapsed in weary relief on his menial, who clasped him fiercely, anxiously rocking him. Nothing had ever felt so good to Pwerid. Then Tuenn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
"You scared me. If I can't at least protect you with this body, what good am I? It could have killed you! Do you think I'd have been even willing to live after that? What for?" He made each word with angry precision.
Pwerid's stomach rumbled, but he forced the first surge down.
Tuenn spoke out of shock and old pain. Made self-conscious of his handicap, scars, and tattoo by the more spiteful of his fellow slaves, and seeing himself as slower and clumsier than they, he had moments when the skin on his heart wore thin. But Pwerid guessed this to be more the strong emotion that follows a close brush with death. He kissed the treasure gripping him.
"There was no time to explain. At first, all I knew was that I had to keep it away from you. As for what you can do? I don't keep you by me to protect me. I'm just an aging fool of a cook. You, however, are more than your muscles." He waited, commanding his stomach to calm down.
When his stomach refused to comply, Pwerid rushed out of Tuenn's grasp for the nearest washbasin and emptied his gut. Tuenn held him upright through the convulsions, and only twitched his nose at the sour smell of chyme.
Unable to resist the baiting, and aware of it, Tuenn made a brief, shaky smile before asking. "Very well, what am I here for? What else am I? I can't even burn water. You clearly saw that the beast was after me and me only. I was all ready to play the hero."
"You can't cook water? You don't need to. No, I did not clearly see the ralur was after you. I guessed, Tuenn. And you don't have to "play the hero", Tuenn. You are a hero. You keep an aging fool from being an aging and bitter fool. You have the biggest and gentlest heart of anyone I have ever known. And I am not the only Hramal who sees this. There is only one thing that I will ever, ever, ask of you, Tuenn. And I can only ask."
Blushing, Tuenn calmed. "You don't have to. I love you.? Even expressionless, Tuenn?s discomfort shone. ?All these years, and it still scares me a little. I just don't know what you see..."
Pwerid hushed him, a finger to his lips. "You don't have to. Feelings aren't that simple. There is no single attribute for which I love you, it is the entire man named Tuenn."
Tuenn made a smile.
"Now. I think my nerves have recovered. We had best see what has become of the others."
Tuenn nodded, grabbed up the stoker, and strode single-mindedly to the doorway. Pwerid almost smiled at the man's unconscious primal grace, and, knowing Tuenn disdained them, grabbed a robe for himself. 'I have my own ralur.' he realized.
What remained of Hultten lay sprawled, his torso mangled, his legs gone. Pwerid noted very little blood, with the marks of the ralur's tongue all about the corpse. Tuenn shuddered and Pwerid hugged him, a trifle desperately, before striding down toward the kitchen, the dining-hall, and the manor proper. The cubbies for his kitchen help proved vacant, and in good order; leading Pwerid to conclude that the helpers had sought out others of their coterie before the attack.
The stench of the ravaged dead followed after Pwerid and Tuenn, and arose before them, as they passed the empty dining-hall and approached the other set of living quarters for the manor-building.
Just past the dining area, perpendicular to the main gallery, ran a second corridor. Down this avenue lay the housekeeper's apartment and some supply rooms, along with the groundskeeper's stall and the reeve?s offices. Pwerid shuffled noisily to a halt and peered down the torch-lit passage. Immediately a head peeked out of a doorway to identify the noisemaker. Hoe in one hand and scythe in the other, a white-haired, barrel-chested man hobbled up and, gasping for breath, started to speak.
A shriek from outside made all three men jump, with visions of the beasts' return. Instead, a shrill voiced cried out, raising gooseflesh with its hysteria. "They're all dead! The Nikraan are all dead!"
Llanfain and Pwerid both chuckled at their display of nerves, then the groundskeeper spoke. "Yes. And I found four people dead along this hallway. All Nikraan. Your two helpers had a scare. I sent them off to check on the neighbor houses; the run should calm them down. They each had clubs and knives. When the shouting started up, I saw three people, a lone Nikraan and two women-slaves, run off into the dark. Being chased by a shadow that could leap on its prey."
Pwerid took the question offered him. "Which of the three became its dinner?"
The old man lowered his head to hide a smile. Pwerid nodded.
"What would you have me do?"
"I must look further before I can speak out." Pwerid hedged. "Wait and be wary. Despite our herald outside, we cannot say with certainty why the beasts came upon us so, or even that they have fled for good."
Pwerid and Tuenn proceeded once more down the main gallery until they came to the cubicle for the Master's personal steward. In the failing hearth-light, the blood staining the chamberlain's bedclothes looked like watery mud. The kitchener merely glanced at the dead chamberlain, one Ardwlyn, before continuing on.
Ferikgroeln's living space consisted of a small study with a closet for his monthly ablutions, a room for his toilette, and a spacious bedroom, with a corridor between the study and bedroom that functioned as a wardrobe. The study remained unlit, and apparently undisturbed. The hallway showed signs of brief use: A man's tunic, underclothes and overtunic, and a diaphanous, long-sleeved gown, all draped the floor. Lips twisted in a wry expression, Pwerid picked up the overtunic and underclothing and settled the items on his shoulder before walking into the darkened bedroom. Tuenn grabbed a torch from its sconce and quickly followed.
The hearthfire had all but died, and night thickly cloaked the room. Thin, coughing sobs squeaked from a far corner, but Pwerid ignored them and strode up to the Master's bier.
Ferikgroeln sprawled on his stomach. Practically all that remained from the waist down looked to be bone and ligament. The flesh over the ribcage had been shredded, and the gray cast of newly exposed bone and cartilage showed through the brown and red. Ferikgroeln's face, turned at a painful angle to one side, looked chalk-white, paler than his encrimsoned blond locks, and set in an expression of surprise. It did not take much imagination for Pwerid to guess how the Master had been caught so unawares.
For a long moment Pwerid stared down at the once-Master of the manor, his breath fast and ragged, his eyes huge, as if searing the tableau into his memory. Tuenn likewise stood rooted in the throes of strong emotion, but what those feelings might have been neither could have easily admitted.
"He's dead." Pwerid's tone betrayed nothing of anger, sorrow or satisfaction.
Tuenn nodded. "The master of a manor, and no one will remember him, or mourn him."
As one, they turned away from the corpse and moved to the source of the yet undiminished sobbing. Hunched in a corner, naked and blood-sotted, ShallŠton lifted her head as the torch approached.
Recognizing the light-bearer and his companion, she raised a baleful eyebrow and shakily straightened to confront them. With a quick, angry jerk, the former concubine grabbed the clothing from Pwerid and clutched it before her. She glared at Pwerid, tears still dripping freely down her cheeks, moistening the dried blood and traces of food. Her heavy make-up and adornment, Nikraan affectation, smeared or ran, and accented - for Pwerid - the hollowness of her pretensions.
"What did you see, ShallŠton?" Pwerid asked gently. "What happened here?"
"I don't know!" she barked out, which started her coughing and sobbing again.
For a moment all the woman could do was gasp, and strive for some measure of control. "We were in bed. He was...He...He grabbed me, hard. And screamed. And screamed! He fell on me. Something rested on top of him. I couldn't move and I could...barely breath. It started tearing at him. He started moving back and forth on top of me." Her shrill tone altered, lowered in volume and register.
"I...I held him in place. As best I could. So that...killer would not start in on me! The Master was already dead and he would have wanted me to live."
"What had attacked you?"
"I didn't see it, idiot! I was not going to show my head. But I could hear it....eating. Eating. Him." Recovered, she started a controlled, mellifluous sob, shading her eyes. When no arm reached to console or slap, and no voice offered sympathy or sarcasm, ShallŠton stopped and turned a suspicious look on her witnesses.
"You knew!" she shrieked. "You knew he was dead before you walked in here! And how he died. Did you set that creature on us?"
This she addressed to a dumbfounded Tuenn. "Did you? Well, I am very much alive, dastard! Your beast has fled, and I will see that you do not profit from this treachery. Chamberlain! Chamberlain!"
"He cannot hear you. Lucky man." Pwerid murmured, thinking furiously.
"Ardwlyn is not bribable. You drugged him."
"The chamberlain is not drugged, he is dead. I believe that such is true for all Nikraan."
ShallŠton's mouth moved and, for a moment Pwerid swore to remember, no sound emerged.
The moment ended. "But...Tuenn!"
Pwerid glanced at his companion. If the Hramal were indeed restored to autonomy, feelings about Nikraan, and all things Nikraan, would soon run high and murderous - obsessive. The only protection that Tuenn could hope for, beside Pwerid's, would have to be on a visceral level, one all the survivors would hold in healthy respect. He answered ShallŠton slowly, as if dazed, not quite sure what he would say until he spoke.
"The ralur visited us as well. I was...I was terrified. But only one came near."
"Ralur?" ShallŠton breathed, eyes bulging.
Pwerid nodded, mirroring her expression. "It started on Tuenn's hand. See where it is bloody? Then this man appeared. Dressed in gray and green. I don't know who he was or where he came from. But...But Tuenn seemed to recognize him. He took one look at Tuenn and motioned the beast away." Pwerid made his eyes go wider in amazement. "The animal crouched behind this man. And purred! Then he came up, smiled at me, kissed Tuenn on his tattooing and muttered some fearful sounds over him. And disappeared. One moment he had Tuenn's face in his hands."
Pwerid's tone turned sharp. "Next moment he was nowhere to be seen. Then the ralur leaped out the window."
ShallŠton stared hard at Tuenn, whose impassive face flushed splendidly, even in torchlight. Barely daring to breathe or move, Pwerid saw the old look of uneasiness on ShallŠton's face, and hoped he had given her a fitting excuse for that anxiety she had never wanted to name.
A whispered. "I knew it!" And Pwerid could trust ShallŠton to carry the tale wherever she went.
Three figures approached from the bedroom doorway. One fellow, the groundskeeper, continued when his more reticent companions halted.
He nodded once to Pwerid.
"And that is what you must do." Pwerid continued, with a face and voice turned granite-hard. "Get dressed and leave."
"How dare you!" ShallŠton rallied. "Dead or no, I am the Master's woman. The nearest this place has to a Mistress of the Manor. You have no rights, certainly not to tell me..."
Pwerid simply thundered over her speech. "I do indeed have the rights. I have the one right that matters most now. What swept through this house must have hit others as well. The Nikraan is gone from the land. And in this manor I am Master now, by right of birth."
ShallŠton gaped at the former kitchener, speechless.
"My grandsire was last-born of the presiding family, but the only survivor. I am, through him, heir to the manor. You never thought to listen to my stories of the old ways. Maybe the only Hramal of the manor - bought or native - who did not listen long enough to figure out my kinship. Take what you need for your survival and go. Before dawn. The jewelry stays here."
"Master," Llanfain hissed. "The other houses are likewise afflicted. Not one Nikraan or half-breed left alive."
Pwerid nodded. "Llanfain, have one of your cohort attend this woman. Make certain that she is off-grounds by dawn. And geared with necessities." He emphasized the last word.
The groundskeeper chuckled, startling ShallŠton out of her daze. "It would be a pleasure, Master." He moved back to confer with his companions. Both stepped up with Llanfain and each took ShallŠton by an arm. Impotent, she glared at Pwerid, darted a quick, nervous glance at Tuenn, and stomped out with her escort.
"Llanfain."
The old groundskeeper looked up, attentive.
"Tuenn." Pwerid called out. The Nikraan turned his head about, the lightning-bolt branding prominent against his restored pallour.
"Llanfain. What do you think of Tuenn?"
Llanfain swallowed hard. Pwerid spoke regularly with all the manor slaves. He and Llanfain would discuss pointedly innocuous matters as they worked on an herb garden. Habitually, the grounds-keeper steered clear of the run of manor-gossip, not wanting to make enemies over trifles or some imagined favouritism. And though their talks seldom touched on the lives of their fellows, Pwerid knew that rumour of his devotion to a Nikraan had reached the groundskeeper. In other matters of relevance the groundskeeper had never ventured an opinion, but bitterness toward Nikraan had been a passion Pwerid and the old man had shared wholeheartedly. The first being rumour, the latter a fact, the elder's answer would tell Pwerid just how imperiled Tuenn might be in his own home. For, when cornered, Llanfain defied his inveterate caution and spoke his mind. And others heeded.
When he answered, Llanfain looked, not at Pwerid, but at Tuenn. "I beg pardon now, if I need to, Master Pwerid. But if I had a grandson still living, I would hope he were like Tuenn in heart and manner. Just like him, but Hramal." He scowled, clearly expecting outrage.
Quietly abashed, Tuenn made a smile.
Pwerid clapped Llanfain on the back, grinning with relief. "Worthy man! Your answer lightens my heart. Let us go console the distraught, and cleanse the manor of all this death."
"At your service, lord." Llanfain replied with his own grin. "But how came our deliverance? Do you know?"
Pwerid chuckled. "Do not play simpleton with me. You know, full well."
Llanfain's smile turned fragile. "The beasts were ralur, sure enough. But why? Did their masters take pity on us? After four generations?"
"In some of the lore I remember, the ralur were their own masters. In other stories, they ate or terrified people who tried to cozen the wizardly 'Free-folk', the Tree-dwellers in the Far East. Pity never moved the ralur. Those tales called the Free-folk 'the genii of the land', fey and perilous. Looking like humans, yet colder and more fierce than us at heart. With a code no man or woman ever understood."
Pwerid sighed, annoyed at the mystery, tired from his fear and exertion, and aware the real work had not even begun.
"We may never know why, Llanfain. The question, I confess, will not keep me awake at night. Not like the memory of the beasts themselves."
Llanfain nodded, thoughtful. "Aye. They were doing some belated weeding, most likely. Let's go burn what they culled."
The End