Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Seventeen: Duel Amid the Cabbage

Gurgeon didn't wait for Millicent to explain who she was, or what she wanted, or why she was bounding toward him across a square in the middle of the night. He simply surged forward on his powerful haunches, coming straight at her, claws raised with lethal intent. Millicent ducked below his first vicious swipe and slipped past him, whirling about on all fours. Gurgeon wheeled too, snarling, and came at her again, swiping savagely with both paws. There was no grace or refinement to his technique. He fought like an animal, and he fought to kill.

The big cat was fast, but Millicent was faster. Lightly, she vaulted over his great slashing claws, placed one paw almost delicately on top of his head, and swung herself over and behind him, landing in a crouch on the other side. She lashed out with a rear paw, sweeping it widely, and Gurgeon found himself toppling backward, his legs cut crisply out from under him. He landed on his back with a dull thud, a sharp yowl of protest escaping from his lungs.

Millicent allowed herself a smile. She had taken Gurgeon's measure now. Cruel he might be, and dangerous, but a cat couldn't hurt what he couldn't touch, and Gurgeon didn't have the speed or the agility to get his paws on her. So long as she remained vigilant, she was safe. She could even afford to enjoy herself.

Gurgeon scrabbled to his feet, his face a twisted mask of rage. For a moment it seemed he was about to charge again, playing the bull to Millicent's toreador, offering a merry little spectacle to anyone who chanced to be watching. But something shifted behind his mismatched eyes, and Gurgeon did not charge. Instead, he drew his sword.

It was a long and fearsome weapon, glinting coldly in the moonlight. It slid from its scabbard with a noise like the sharpening of knives. Millicent took a step backward, bracing herself, half-raising her forepaws in readiness. The game had changed.

Now it was Gurgeon's turn to smile. His smile was hideous, like the leer of a demon—hard, malignant, and grotesque. He came forward, raising his big sword aloft, a savage exultation shining in his eyes.

Suddenly, a handsome calico cat in a green cloak darted in front of Gurgeon, blocking his path. The calico held up one paw, warningly. "You really don't want to do this," it said.

Gurgeon frowned. He was pretty sure he did want to do this. Wasn't that why he was doing it? And yet this calico seemed very confident. Gurgeon was confused.

"The Lady Millicent is a guest of the king's," continued the calico. "We don't want to anger the king, do we?"

Well, that was an easy one. We did not want to anger the king. This new king was a shadowy presence, unseen and unknowable, and Gurgeon was superstitiously afraid of him. At night, he dreamed of this king he had never seen, and in the dream the king had a thousand faces, each one more terrible than the last.

Gurgeon lowered his sword and scowled at the interloper. "Who are you?" he inquired suspiciously.

The calico gave an audible sigh before he answered. "Thumbledramp the Great," he mumbled. The stranger seemed to be ashamed of his own name, which was a little bewildering. It was a strange name, admittedly—but anyone who got to be called "the Great" must have something going for him. Gurgeon had to settle for "Gurgeon the Blind," which he absolutely hated.

"And what business is this of yours, Tramblescamp?" demanded Gurgeon harshly. He wasn't feeling particularly tough at the moment, but one had to keep up appearances.

"I am an envoy from the Eastern Kingdoms," replied the stranger. "And the Lady Millicent is my escort."

Inwardly, Gurgeon cringed. Politics. Gurgeon hated politics. There were things in this world that you couldn't slash to pieces or chew up and swallow, and Gurgeon hated those things.

"Well, tell your escort not to go around assaulting the king's officers," said Gurgeon petulantly. He was determined to scrape some kind of victory out of this whole embarrassing situation.

Thumbledump turned to Millicent. "Millicent," he said, "don't go around assaulting the king's officers."

"All right," said Millicent.

Well, that seemed to settle it. Gurgeon put his sword back in its scabbard. He glared at Millicent, then at Bumblescump. Then he bowed stiffly, turned, and strode off across the square, trying not to hurry, trying to maintain his dignity at all costs. A cabbage rolled out from under his paw; he stumbled and nearly fell.

Greg watched Gurgeon go. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he fought to control his breathing. I can't believe it worked, he thought to himself. I can't believe I'm not dead. By this point in the encounter, he had more or less planned on being dead. Now he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

Greg looked over at Millicent. Her eyes were on him, and she was slowly shaking her head. "It's the bravest kind of fool you are, Gregory Tilson," she said, her voice full of sardonic awe.

Greg smiled, and a wave of exhaustion swept over him. He felt his shoulders sag and his knees go weak. In silence, he and Millicent trudged back to the inn and mounted the steps to the upper floor. They said their goodnights and disappeared into their separate bedrooms. Alone in his bed, Greg started reviewing the events of the last hour in his mind, but before he got past the first minute-and-a-half or so, he was asleep.