He came in splendor, in magnificence. His glory shone not from the rough colors of his clothes and armor, though the cloak made of his enemies' pelts and feathers surely impressed whoever witnessed it. No, he shone from the very power of his blood, as his fur and countenance made evident. His muzzle and teeth came to sharper points than the ferals', and the colors of his fur blended into even camouflage, lacking their domestic spots and stripes.

He came in majesty, declaring his wildcat heritage without speaking. And Ratha Kaltag, who had waited long for this moment, saw, and knew, and waited.

He came exactly when the warleaders needed him, too, though at first they did not recognize it. They saw only a stranger and an intruder, descending without invitation upon their council. They accosted him, not aware as Ratha was of how futile their efforts would prove against such a superior being. She alone did not rise from the council table.

"Halt! Who are you? What is the meaning of this?"

The newcomer looked them all over before replying, his hand on the head of a great one-bladed axe at his waist. Already he had the manner of a leader surveying his troops, but this, too, escaped the notice of all save Ratha Kaltag. "Be still," he rumbled, "I am a cat." He did not add "same as you." He looked resolutely past the crowd toward the table behind them. "Whose camp is this?"

The foremost of the warleaders rose to the challenge. "It is mine, stranger, the war chieftain Goreth Steelclaw." He cast an appraising eye over the newcomer, but his next words, in failing to further resist the trespass on his territory, proved him too weak to have the right of passing judgment on the wildcat. "Have you come to join our cause?"

"What cause is it?"

"We mean to settle this land, what the local beasts call Green Isle. Only, there's a bunch of river otters given us resistance. We mean to drive 'em out, but they're taking our armies down to Dark Forest cat by cat." Already he had bared his weakness and sought the newcomer's confidence, before he had even heard his visitor's name. It was over.

"An army of cats should be able to crush mere otters." The implicit criticism sent mutters through the group. "Show me the situation."

The war council returned to the table, where a scout's crude map of Green Isle lay. Steelclaw pointed to several areas at confluences of rivers. "They have communities in all the best places. But any way we move in, they keep hitting us and dropping back into the rivers as we give chase. It's no way to make war."

Ratha Kaltag watched as the wildcat gave the map just a cursory glance, surely taking in all the information revealed there, but demonstrating that the strategic layout was not his first concern. "You're right. This is no way to wage war. Which means you wage war another way." He stared hard at Steelclaw. "Tell me. Why do these otters resist you?"

It seemed a foolish question. Steelclaw shrugged. "They want to protect their land."

The wildcat visitor sneered. "Stop thinking of it as 'their land,' and you might have a chance. It's your land, and they're squatting on it." The harsh look softened just slightly. "But you're nearly right. This land matters to them. It's worth the cost of a few – what, slingstones? if I know otters – to keep it. We need to raise that price." He swept a look over the whole table. "So. What do these otters care about most?"

"The water," one of the other warchiefs ventured.

"True. They're otters, they like that. What else?"

Silence lingered for a moment, and Ratha looked into the faces of the other warleaders, many of whom were whispering to each other more than considering the visitor's question. Their mistake. One dullard at Ratha's left spoke up: "I dunno. Shrimp and hotroots?"

That brought forth a round of chuckles from the table, but the newcomer hissed. "No! Idiots." The noise died down, but no one came up with a new answer. "They care about their families, you fools. These are communities, not warbands. Raise the cost to that level, and they will fold. There will be no more resistance." He looked back at Steelclaw. "Do you have cats who can enter their communities by stealth? Under the cover of night?"

"My scouts are excellent. They—"

"They aren't your scouts anymore. They're our assassins. Send them in to kill without warning, to slay or kidnap the wives and children of the warriors who've harried you. Send word the next day that they have paid this price for defying us." He walked around the table, seeming a head above them all. Ratha savored his words. "It will not break them immediately; they will double their defenses and come seeking revenge, but there the fight will come on our terms. Then we shall punish them again with fire or poison, and again if they stage another attack, and again, until they accept us as their masters."

"It is a fine plan, my lord," said Ratha Kaltag, drawing the attention of the whole table by the breach of her long silence and the subversive words of deference with which she addressed the visitor. "May I suggest something?"

The wildcat considered her for a moment, and nodded.

"When we send our assassins, let us target only the children. A mother may surprise our cats with her ability to fight back in defense of her nest, and then raise the alarm, and spoil our plan. But a child is just a child, and easily overpowered. And it will break their morale most of all, for it is a parent's greatest sorrow to outlive her children."

Murmurs rippled around the table, but the wildcat grinned wickedly and nodded to her. "Yes. We'll do that."

"And one more thing, if I may be so bold, my lord: what do we call you, who have come into our midst to deliver us victory?"

That wicked smile spread to his glittering eyes – ah, those two glorious eyes! – as he answered her. "I am the wildcat Riggu Felis, come from the lands to the east. And you say it well: I will make us lords of this Isle!"

And Ratha Kaltag, who had waited and watched so long for such a warlord to come, saw, and knew, and loved him.