Free Cats Triumphant by Jody Lynn Nye

the silversmith declared, confronting the warrior nose to nose as she stumped back up the hill after making a rough toilet at the river’s edge. The orange cat followed her, her latest catch clasped proudly in her jaws. “There are rats in my shop, and my cat ,” he pointed accusingly, “has spent all the last day up here with you. Release the witchery you’ve placed on her so she can do what I keep her to do!”
    “There’s no witchery,” Dawna replied, glancing at the cat, who’d taken her favorite spot among the knobby roots of the tree. Her kittens, looked after by her other charges, played with their mother’s tail, a leaf and a strand of hair from Dawna’s comb. “She’ll go, but your son must promise not to abuse her.”
    “Er … ” the silversmith began. If he thought it was sorcery how could he argue? “Er. Done, then.”
    He rushed away. Dawna glanced at the orange cat. “In your own good time, then. We’ll see if his word’s his bond.”
    She was beginning to enjoy the company of cats. In many ways her little enclave on the hilltop reminded her of the war camp she had just left. Each warrior had her job to do, but was glad of the society of fellow warriors at the end of the day. She wished they could talk as well as understand. Dawna missed human conversation. Her keen hearing allowed her to eavesdrop on the innkeeper’s guests at the edge of the green.
    “ … Say the war’s over, so I guess that female up there was telling the truth …”
    “ … Raspberry season down south. It’ll start here soon … ”
    “ … Sixty dead in one town. Can’t tell me that’s not sorcery from the enemy!”
    “ … Never happen here. Come on, let’s have another drink.”
    * * *
    By the next morning Dawna could feel that the town’s tolerance limit had been reached. Though they couldn’t tell she knew what they were doing, the adults went about furtively, peeking at her from behind trees, ducking into one another’s shops and homes, coordinating what they planned to do, to drive away the invader. She had plenty of time to divine their intention. By the time they’d formed up into a mob, three hours after they had begun, she had had time to bathe, enjoy a hearty breakfast of grilled fish and purloined sausage, pet and doctor all the cats, and don her full armor, including her buckler and newly-polished sword. The gleaming hilts of dirks poked out of both boot tops, and a war hammer, her least favorite weapon but a good one of last recourse, hung ready at her belt. She had fifteen cats with her now. Most of the adult felines of the town had come to her during the last day, bringing an offering, hoping for protection. They clustered behind her heels.
    Led by the silversmith nearly the entire human population of Cabbage Town stalked into the common and surged partway up the hill where she held her vigil. They were carrying tools of their trades, such as shears and hammers, or garden implements like hoes and spades. Only two bore themselves like former soldiers: the school teacher and the dyer, who both carried short-swords of uncertain age. The rest held their makeshift weapons with no conviction. Dawna felt certain she could defend herself if it came to a fight, but she intended that no fight should begin. A few of them stopped dead when they saw how she was attired. She smiled. Half the battle was already won.
    Pushed by the others, the silversmith finally stepped forward out of the mob. He cleared his throat.
    “Sell-sword, we’ve concluded … all of us,” he turned to gesture at the crowd, “that, er, it is disruptive to the, er, well-being of our town, of which you are not a citizen, that … that … ”
    “That I should leave?” Dawna finished for him.
    “Um … er … yes,” the silversmith squeaked out, surprised at her capitulation. He seemed to take heart. “I mean, that is, forthwith. You must be on your way at once. Carrying only what you came with. Er. Yes. You must leave our