by Paul Chafe
Thirty seconds later something was wrong. Pouncer said a corridor, but he was in a garden, aromatic and well manicured hedges and complex sculptures. A panicked Jotok ran past, arm/legs undulating, but he could see no other way down. He breathed deep while Trina caught up.
“Which way?” she asked.
He looked left and right, then inspiration struck. “You tell me.”
She nodded, and without hesitation ran across the garden. On the other side was an open archway, and another set of stairs spiraling down. Trina’s luck. He took the lead again and found a corridor two flights underground, musty with the damp of ages. But Pouncer said cells. This corridor ran straight, with occasional arches leading to cross corridors. Trina ran and Tskombe followed her, trying to keep track of the twists and turns so they could find their way out again. I’m trusting her luck so why bother? Because her luck wasn’t his luck, he realized. The image of her turning just in time to avoid the ballista shaft that went on to kill Ferlitz-Telepath was burned in his mind.
They took stairs spiraling down again. It was an old part of the fortress, the walls made of huge stones. At the bottom was another corridor, this one with cells, and at the end of it a chamber. A kill scream paralyzed him and he turned to see a black blur in midleap. Instinctively he swung the variable sword and his attacker was cut in half. The body parts slammed into Tskombe and knocked him over, covering him in gouting blood. Another scream split the air and a second black-furred kzin flew through the space he had been standing in. He struggled to his feet shakily. He had no mag armor. If the kzin had been wearing any, strength and mass alone would have made the match a short one.
He wiped blood from his eyes, saw the second attacker impaled through the forehead on a long, wicked looking skewer stuck into one of the large wooden support posts that held up the ceiling. Trina was standing in front of him looking shocked. There was smeared blood on the kzin’s feet and it took half a second to put the picture together. He leapt at Trina even as I killed his companion, and got blood on his feet and slipped, hit the skewer and died. Trina’s expression told of horror and he followed her gaze. He saw a human figure staked to a heavy table with cruel steel spikes. It took him longer to realize it was a woman, and he did not want to think it was Ayla, but it was. She was naked, her body twisted into an unnatural position by the skewers. Coagulated blood caked around the larger wounds, and her hair was matted. He knew from Ferlitz that she had been there three days, at least. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, but he could tell she was not asleep. Her face looked strangely relaxed, as though she had somehow come to terms with the constant, excruciating pain.
“Ayla!” He was afraid to touch her. If she moved the skewers might tear out. She didn’t respond.
“Ayla!” Her eyes fluttered.
“Ayla, it’s me.”
“Quacy?” Her eyes wouldn’t focus at first. “Quacy, am I dreaming?” Her voice was distant and dreamy.
“No, I’m here, I’m real.” He put his hand on her shoulder tentatively, as though even that contact might do her further injury.
“Oh Quacy.” She looked up at him, moving just her eyes because of the way she was pinned down. The reality of his presence brought her mind back from wherever it had fled from the pain, and she shuddered. “Oh Quacy, it hurts.”
“It won’t hurt much longer. Just hang on.” He tried to be gentle getting the skewers out, but it was impossible; they were driven deep into the wooden table top and had to be worked loose. “Trina, help me.”
Trina moved around to Ayla’s head to pull out the smaller needles that pinned her hand to the board.
“Valya?” Ayla was staring at Trina with an odd expression. “Now I know I’m dreaming.”
Trina stopped, her expression frozen. “What did you call me?”
Ayla’s eyes refocused. “I’m sorry…Valya, my sister…you look like her.”
Trina was staring, eyes round. “Valya was my mother.”
Tskombe let go of the skewer he was working on, understanding arriving with sudden shock. He looked from one face to the other, saw the family resemblance in the shape of the nose, the chin and the high cheekbones. Suddenly he remembered how familiar Trina had seemed when he first met her. And lucky Trina has come fifty light-years through two wars to find her only living relative. It made sense now.
And there was still a war on. “Come on, we have no time.” He pulled hard on another skewer.
“Quacy…” She gasped in pain as the skewer let go and pulled free. “There’s a ship aimed at earth, lightspeed weapons…”
“We don’t have to worry about that now. First we’re going to get you somewhere safe.”
She shook her head violently, a motion that must have caused considerable pain. “No, we have to stop it. The black-furred kzin, he knows the coordinates.”
“One of these two?” He gestured to the bodies.
“No, another one. Ftzaal-Tzaatz.”
“Is he the one who did this to you?”
“Yes.” She groaned as another skewer came free, fresh blood oozing from the crusted wound.
The Tzaatz will pay for this. Tskombe smiled grimly as he worked another needle loose. The flesh seemed to be cauterized where the needles had gone in. They put them in hot. Anger flooded him. Oh yes, they will pay. Each tug caused her new pain, but Ayla gritted her teeth and bore it stoically.
Noises in the corridor. He grabbed up the variable sword and turned to face a mag armored kzin coming into the room at the bound, four more behind him.
“Kr-Pathfinder!” He lowered the variable sword, relief flooding over him.
“Tskombe-kz’zeerkti. We must leave, now.”
Tskombe nodded. “Help me get her free.”
Pathfinder gave tail signals, and a pair of czrav warriors moved to secure the room’s other entrance. Then he grabbed the larger skewers that pinned Ayla’s thighs and calves and yanked. Ayla screamed then, but she didn’t cry, as Tskombe and Trina and Pathfinder pulled the needles from her body. The tears didn’t come until the last skewer was gone and she collapsed, unable even to sit up. She tried, struggling, and when she couldn’t she looked down at the horrific damage done to her body and wept, and Tskombe lifted her and carried her out of the chamber of horrors that she thought she’d die in.
Pathfinder snarled. “She is lucky to be alive.”
Ayla breathed in and out, self-control reasserting itself. I am still an officer. Still she had to fight down a wave of nausea as she saw what had been done to her. “They’ve ruined me, Quacy.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing an autodoc won’t fix.” He tried to be gentle as he carried her, but there was still a battle going on, and speed was critical. He took a moment to kiss her though, gently at first because he was afraid he might hurt her, and then hard because he loved her and had lost her and wanted her to know that he’d never let her go again. And then they had to go, so he carried her up the spiral staircase into the light. He found himself in the same garden as before, but on the other side of the tower. Pouncer’s instructions were right, I should have gone right around the tower on the outside. But he hadn’t and who knew how fate would have woven events if they’d taken the easy way. Trina’s luck worked in mysterious ways.
“We have to get the black-furred one.” Ayla was breathless, still trembling in his arms. “Ftzaal-Tzaatz.”
“Oh we will.” He clenched his jaw grimly. Sounds of combat rose over the Citadel walls.
Kr-Pathfinder dropped to attack-crouch, searching for hidden dangers in the ornate garden. He made tail signals, commanding his half-sword into defensive positions, then keyed his vocom. “Sire, we have the Cherenkova-Captain and the other kz’zeerkti.”
Tskombe looked at him, only then realizing that the big kzin’s appearance was not coincidence but plan. Pouncer is winning here. He found that somehow surprising, and he realized he had never allowed himself to think in terms of final victory, even as he planned for it. Because to win I ha
d to have Ayla, and now I do.
A crystal iron crossbow bolt embedded itself in the tower’s stonework with an audible spang, a handsbreadth from his head. One of Kr-Pathfinder’s sword wheeled and fired an arrow back, knocking a Tzaatz warrior from the battlements. Other Tzaatz appeared. And now I have her, we’ve got to get out of here while we still can.
Scream and leap.
—The Dueling Traditions
Ftzaal-Tzaatz watched the battle unfold from the security of the Patriarch’s Tower. Far below Heroes contended with sinew and steel, fighting for every last stone of the Citadel. The czrav forces had made it over the north wall and penetrated as far as the Middle Fortress. That was as it should be. He turned to the semi-comatose form drooling on the prrstet beside him, one of two telepaths he had managed to extract from the Black High Circle.
“Where is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit now?” He almost purred the words.
The telepath’s eyes rolled back in his head. “He is…he is rallying warriors to storm the Hall of the Patriarch.”
“Is he still in the mind-trance?”
“No…Not in the trance…but still aware…aware of mind space…”
“Excellent.” Ftzaal turned his palm over. “It is time to put the bait in the trap.” He looked again to the unfolding battle and keyed his viscom. A holo appeared, showing the Command Lair where Kchula-Tzaatz watched the battle with his entourage.
“Brother.” Kchula’s voice came over the voice link.
“The battle threatens you. I have created a secure area in the Patriarch’s Great Hall. You must move there with your staff.”
“From the Command Lair?” Kchula’s voice was incredulous. “If they can get me here, how is the Great Hall safer?”
“Because I so command it to be safer.” Ftzaal snapped the words testily. “There is a secret way to the Command Lair. They may use it.”
“I will go then.” Kchula broke the carrier.
Ftzaal returned his attention to the battle unfolding beneath him. My brother serves his purpose at last. The Rrit still feels the effects of the sthondat. He will sense Kchula and go to him. His claws extended of their own accord. And when he does I will capture him, and test a theory. He keyed his com again.
“Assault rapsar parties, move now. Citadel defense, fall back. The trap is set, Ftz’yeer, stand by for my word. Remember I want him alive.”
“As you command, sire…” “As you command, sire…” The voices cracked back. Outside in the forests eight-cubed assault rapsari began moving to cut off and encircle the czrav. They had Ftzaal’s other telepath with them to shield their minds from the czrav. Their presence would be a complete surprise. Neither the czrav nor the Rrit would escape him today. Unconsciously, his jaw relaxed into a fanged smile. I will go there myself to see the Rrit taken. He turned to the telepath beside him. “In a moment you will cease shielding my brother’s presence. We will show this leader-of-czrav what he is really up against.”
Eat today or be hungry tomorrow.
—Dolphin saying
Crusader fell in toward the Traveler’s Moon, and Curvy watched on her battleplot as the two fleets closed. The kzinti weren’t climbing up to meet the UN force high in the gravity well, as they usually did. Instead they were waiting for the UN ships to close. Their battle plan was clear. They would let their orbital fortresses engage the human fleet while their battleships and other heavy units maneuvered for close combat, accepting high casualties to get at the carriers that were the heart of the UN attack plan. Still, she could see advantage to be gained. The kzinti were deployed in battle groups, and it was clear from their motions that they were not well coordinated. They were probably acting independently, and if the human force could split them and engage them separately they could keep their casualties to a minimum. She keyed data into her console. Projections on her strategic matrix ranged from twenty-five to fifty percent casualties for the UN force, a heavy toll for ultimate victory. Kzinhome was well guarded, but there were no outcome spaces that did not result in UN success, so the only problem was how to minimize the losses.
There was a higher level problem, which was the response that the rest of the Patriarchy would mount to the destruction of their homeworld. It was a large empire, its full extent still unknown, though it would probably collapse with its central authority removed. What might happen after that was worrisome. The UN had demonstrated how easy it was to devastate a world. Her strategic matrix showed a nearly ninety percent probability of kzinti retaliation in kind, with a thirty percent probability that they were already mounting an exterminating attack. That probability had dropped somewhat when she’d seen how many major kzinti combat units were committed to the defense of their homeworld, but it was still far from zero. A fleet attack was only one way of razing a world, and not even the most efficient. The UN had proven that too.
She nosed her way to the bottom of the tank to snap down a salmon, and then swam over to nudge Zwweee(click)wurrrrtrrrtrrr from his nap. They mated in an amorous flurry, and then she let languor overtake her and she half-napped while he watched the unfolding battle. They worked in split watches now. Even with the end of worlds at hand life’s pulse goes on uninterrupted. They would destroy Kzinhome and the universe would continue. There was no sense in regretting what she couldn’t control.
To see is not to understand.
—Patriarch’s Telepath
The Tzaatz screamed and leapt, and Pouncer’s variable sword was already in the trajectory of his leap, canted just so. The Tzaatz died, decapitated as Pouncer’s slicewire found the gaps in the neck articulation of his armor. In mind space Pouncer felt him die, and the sudden terminal pain flooded his awareness. He shook off the sudden paralysis, then froze again as he felt a disturbance in mind space. The sthondat extract had worn off to the point he could no longer know thought, only presence, but this presence was special. Kchula-Tzaatz! He is in my father’s hall. He looked around to assess the battle, saw the Heroes of Ztrak Pride, much diminished, had secured the House of Victory. He was already in position to attack. We can take the Great Hall and end this here.
He raised his voice. “Ztrak Pride, with me, skirmish order. Advance!”
His warriors leapt to obey, and he could not help but purr at the crisp discipline of his command, even as he appreciated the gravity of their task. His forces held the entire north wall now, and his furthest advance scouts were as far south as the Inner Keep. I will win this yet. He looked to C’mell, leading his left forward four-sword now, and to Swift-Claw, leading his right forward. We have lost so many…He would not falter now, so close to victory. Their deaths would not be in vain.
“C’mell, take your four-sword to secure the rear of the Hall. Don’t let anyone escape that way.”
“As you command.” Her reply was clipped, as professional as any zitalyi. I cannot show her favor.
“Sire, we have the Cherenkova-Captain and the other kz’zeerkti.” It was Kr-Pathfinder, his voice confident.
“Acknowledged. Move to the Great Hall of the Patriarch. We are securing it now.”
“As you command.”
They advanced against trivial resistance. The Tzaatz forces seemed to be falling apart. It was almost too easy, and he reached out into mind space to detect a trap. There were potentials, to be sure…More sthondat would let me know their thoughts, know their intentions. He pushed the thought away. I cannot allow myself to become addicted. He would have to make do with what he had.
They gained the entrance to the Great Hall, rushed up the ancient stone stairs into the vaulted antechamber. Tzaatz grav skirmishers still leapt overhead and arrows fell sporadically, but resistance seemed to be dying down already. He could sense Kchula-Tzaatz inside. And my brother! He contained his eagerness to confront them in favor of caution and security. I owe it to my warriors not to squander their lives. He sent a sword forward to secure the entrance, and they reported it clear.
He advanced another sword and followed it. The hall was large, fu
ll of hiding places. Clearing it would take time. As he moved forward he was struck by the changes that had taken place since the last time he had entered its familiar confines. I have lost my father, become a warrior, taken a name, found a mate, fathered kits of my own, forged an army and led it here…Meerz-Rrit would be proud of him, and there was both joy and sorrow in that realization.
Kill screams echoed, cutting off his reverie, and at the same instant mind space was flooded with new awareness, eight-cubed bright spots of awareness, close. Ambush! With the realization came the knowledge that he had been tricked, that the Tzaatz had shielded their numbers from him in mind space, had encouraged him to overconfidence and overextension. Red and gold mag armor. The elite Ftz’yeer were leaping to the attack. At the same time voices flooded the com channel.
“Sire! Rapsari to our north, eight-squared…”
“Sire! We need reinforcement…”
A flash in mind space, lumbering rapsari in wedge formation, closing in on the prides who held the perimeters. They were built like raiders but quadrupedal and bigger, much bigger. They made these to kill tuskvor. In that instant he realized how long the Tzaatz had been anticipating his attack. They have kept their own secrets well. In the vision the wedge slammed into his perimeter guard like an in-falling comet, fangs slicing tuskvor flesh, and then a Tzaatz screamed and leapt and he nearly died as he pulled his variable sword in line to block the blow.
