The Tongue Of Cats

Chapter Seventeen

I was chosen for this.

They elected me to do this.

I can't fail.

Aspenfrost squared his shoulder and cast a glance over the pawful of cats assigned to his patrol. They were standing straight and attentive, adopting the battle pose so carefully taught to them. A collection—a neighborhood—of Twoleg dens was situated before him, only a few tree-lengths away. The sounds of Twoleg kits playing drifted lightly through the air, but Aspenfrost didn't have the time to focus on such frivolous things.

They were going to battle. 

"March!" he commanded, mew ringing in the air as his head snapped forward. Aspenfrost assumed the posture of his warriors as he, too, marched forward, paws hitting the dirt in time with the other cats. They kept to the side of a dark alley between two large buildings, avoiding a pair of Twolegs on the street. "Unsheathe." And now there was the small clicking sound of claws against stone. Aspenfrost shivered.

"This is for every cat who has died at their paws!" the tom shouted just as they rounded a corner, turning into a busy plaza.

Everything exploded into chaos.

Aspenfrost hurtled himself at an unsuspecting, unarmed Twoleg, his claws digging deep into its arm. The creature let out a yowl, stumbling away and letting out a cry. It soon fled. This exact series of events was happening with each Landong warrior—each was sending a Twoleg running.

And this continued until the only Twoleg left was a tiny kit, huddling in the corner and crying out, presumably for its mother. 

"Good job, warriors," Aspenfrost meowed, pride swelling in his chest. "Your training has paid off well. I'm proud of you." 

They all gave a quiet, 'yes sir', but it seemed to lack the motivation that normally drove the Landong army. Aspenfrost was feeling it too—what had they done? These Twolegs were unarmed, unprepared, and unwilling to even return a blow. It seemed like not a hair was out of place on the cats' pelts, but the ground was still running red and echoing shrieks were fading into the distance.

"Aspenfrost?" asked a tentative voice. The tom glanced through the line of soldiers until he found the speaker. "May I please return the Twoleg kit to its mother? It's very scared." 

"Alright," Aspenfrost responded, not wanting to argue. "Just be quick. We're going to be walking back. Soldiers, assemble!" They quickly drew into lines as the small brown tabby darted off with a Twoleg baby in her jaws. "March."

And the rhythm began again.

By Rio. ⛈⛈