| Several days passed. Rathkanar found himself being attacked; the people jeered him as both an insane idiot and a heartless killer of his fellow cat warriors. They would protest him from outside the stronghold, but as the protests continued, the support of Rathkanar inside the stronghold dwindled; his guards and servants abandoned him and joined the opposition. People began to refer to their king as "Rathkanar the Wicked" and "The Wrongful One." One evening, late at night, long after the village had retired for the evening, Rathkanar decided to go for a stroll. He was very scared of what might happen to him if he left he left his quarters, thus he walked quickly and silently. As Rathkanar passed by the area where he buried Mari, he began to realize that he was not alone. Could it be my spirits haunting me again? he wondered, his heart racing. His walking speed increased. "Maybe I can escape them," he whispered to himself. As the king passed by a small grove, a young panther man in a black cloak stepped out from behind a few trees. His features were hidden except for his muzzle and his hand, which held a large dagger. "Perhaps," the gentleman said, "but you won't be able to escape us." Just then, six more armed phantoms stepped out of the darkness, their features concealed with dark clothing and face paint, four men and two women, all cat warriors. "This horror will end now for us, but it has only just begun for you." Rathkanar panicked, finding himself surrounded. He gasped, eyes widening, then he turned to run. As he turned, the cloaked puma stabbed him the back with his dagger. The king cried out in agony, as he felt his body go numb. It was then that the other cat warriors began to attack him and stab at him with bladed objects large and small. One of the cat women, scantly clad in leather armor and her face painted to make her beautiful face appear twisted and disgusting, hissed loudly and swung a shortsword at the king, slicing his belly open, then clawing his face with both hands. Rathkanar staggered, screaming and bleeding from his face and abdomen, the first assailant's dagger still imbedded in his back. Soon other cat warriors approached him, until they pinned him to the ground, still alive, and murdered him where he lay. The killing left Rathkanar's body completely unrecognizable; they clawed his throat, stabbed his heart, sliced his arms and legs, and finally -- in a wave of blood and gore and fury -- partially dismembered him and cut off his head. What was once a large leopard/lion king was now reduced to a bloody collage of appendages. Even the cat warriors who attacked him and the surrounding trees were sprayed with blood. The seven assailants gathered his limbs and head, and threw them deep into the woods, hopefully where no one would find them. They then retreated into the forest, not intending to return to the village until the morning came. The next morning was a beautiful day, and the cat warriors of the village were up early to go about their daily errands. One of the cat warriors, a gentleman tiger named Tyorn, was on his way to the deep wood to gather lumber to help an unfortunate cat warrior family build a house. He walked with his axes along the path, enjoying the beauty of the new day. As Tyorn arrived at his desired area of the woods, his nose twitched. He had never smelled anything so horrible in his life; the stench made him gag and cough. A short distance away he saw large swarms of flies. He slowly walked towards them, only to find that the surrounding trees were splattered red. What happened here? he wondered, making his approach. Tyorn stepped through some bushes to see what was happening; what he saw shocked him. In front of him were the bloody, decomposing remains of Rathkanar, with the flies and insects feeding off of them. The combination of the morbid, mangled, segmented corpse and the irritating hum of the files circling about sent him to his knees. Tyorn, tears streaming down his face, doubled over and wretched onto the ground, several times in only a few moments. After regaining his composure, Tyorn stood up and, even with his stomach full of cramps and his brain full of horrible images, ran toward the village as fast as he could. "Rathkanar is dead! Rathkanar is dead!" he screamed over and over, running full speed through the village. Many cat warriors all rushed after him. "Our king is dead!" they all cried at once, some joyously, some sadly. They followed Tyorn into the woods, where they found their former leader's body. Lanom, among the cat warriors, was outraged. "How did this happen?!" he boomed. "Who is responsible for this?" As with the death of Nola over 30 ladurs before, none could say. Everyone suddenly became a suspect. Lanom cried. "I know not who to blame," he said. "We are all suspects; none of us can be punished. We all are equally guilty; all of us wanted him gone." Gamer spoke up. "Let us gather his remains," he said, "and give him an appropriate funeral." That day was the most horrible day of any cat warrior's life. During that afternoon, the cat warriors all watched as Rathkanar's body -- somewhat realigned to look whole again -- was placed on a pyre and set ablaze. His frame burned for hours, his ashes rising into the treetops. The next morning, the cat warriors returned to the pyre to find a small pile of ashes. Rathkanar's ashes were spread about the kindom by several villagers. The horror they endured had finally ended. But where would they find another leader? Epilouge |