by Paul Chafe
It took him a long time to recognize it for what it was. The Black Priest! Ftzaal-Tzaatz was insulated from the world of observer quantum wave collapse by the Black Fur gene, which made his awareness unavailable to Pouncer, but he was there, waiting for him, he could sense that much at least. He is alive, he is aware, there must be a way to reach him. He concentrated, directed all his energy at it, felt his own awareness burning away with the effort of the attempt, but nothing he could do would penetrate the barrier. The Black Fur gene is powerful. More sthondat extract would let him know Ftzaal's mind. But I cannot lose myself in the mind-trance. If only I could touch him… Physical contact would strengthen the bond, let him break through the Black Priests' barriers, but that was impossible. Already he could feel the drug's effects fading, and the desire for more, to rekindle the vision, was strong, strong within him. The Citadel gates were coming up. How much time has passed? He fought the craving, fought as well to return himself to awareness, to open his eyes so he could lead his assaulters to the walls of his father's fortress, as he must. He entered a twilight zone then, between the two universes and then found another awareness, in terrible pain. It was different somehow, a kz'eerkti. Cherenkova-Captain! She suffers the Hot Needle! Her pain swept over him, consuming him like a swarm of v'pren and from far, far away he heard himself howling in response.
And the world returned like a sudden bath of ice water, and he found himself lying on the floor of the tsvasztet, Swift-Claw kneeling over him with concern. Sounds of battle rose, kzinti kill screams mixed with the deep, booming bellows of enraged tuskvor and the keening cries of rapsari.
He staggered to the front of the tsvasztet where C'mell still had the tiller bar. They were surging past Hero's Square, entering the forest of broadleaf trees that separated it from the Citadel, and the rapsar assaulters were waiting for them there. As he watched, a pair of them appeared and attacked a tuskvor immediately in front of him. They were half its size, but vicious, with pincer tentacles that slashed and stabbed, seeking the vulnerable flesh beneath the tuskvor's armor. The tuskvor bellowed in pain and the Ztrak Pride warriors on its back leapt with grav belts and variable swords to attack the Tzaatz infantry who rode the rapsari. The rapsar keened and tore at the tuskvor's neck. Blood began to fountain to the ground as the tuskvor struggled, thrashing its huge tail and trying to bring its tusks to bear on its antagonist. The other beast snatched a czrav Hero in midleap, crushing his life out and casting him aside. The tuskvor went down with a crash that shook the ground and snapped ancient broadleaf trunks to the ground. A volley of steel balls from a Tzaatz launcher rapsar deeper in the woods came over, one of them tearing the canopy and half the tsvasztet railing off of Pouncer's tuskvor, coming so close to him that he felt the wind of its passage. He toggled the vocom on his beltcomp and spoke into it, the battle picture he'd gained in the mind-trance still fresh in his memory. “Ztrak Pride, close and attack. Dziit Pride, right flank from reserve, take the north walls, clear the way for the assault prides.” The need for stealth is gone now, and the Tzaatz won't have time to break the crypting. “Support prides into position. Ccarri Pride, lead the others to secure the perimeter.”
The mind-trance was still strong enough on him that he felt his warriors responding to his commands, even as the confirmations crackled over the vocom channel. The battle had broken up into swirling knots of violence, the cohesion of both attack and defense broken by the close country. A pair of resin-spraying assaulters lumbered out of the trees, gouting noxious goo from their forehead nozzles. C'mell hauled on the tiller and their tuskvor bellowed and balked. She yanked the releases, letting the control lines run free, and the angered tuskvor swung its horns at the nearer assaulter, ripping its side open. It collapsed in a stew of its own ichor, twitching. The tuskvor lurched and jabbed at the second one, missing. The assaulter came closer, under the tuskvor's long, powerful neck, spraying wildly. A gobbet of the sticky poison hit Pouncer on the arm, burning where it touched, and drying to a thick resin almost at once, but there wasn't enough there to incapacitate him. The rapsar keened and their tuskvor ran over it, crushing it underfoot without slowing down, but the attack had already taken its toll. The tuskvor's neck and forebody were covered in the goo, and it bellowed in rage and pain. C'mell struggled hard to reel in the lines she'd let loose to regain control over the beast, but the resin had hopelessly snarled them. The tuskvor spotted another rapsar, this one a catapulter, and it bellowed and charged. The damaged tsvasztet lurched and slid backward as the catapulter cut loose a salvo of steel balls.
Pouncer grabbed for support. “Grav belts!”
The balls flew past and several smacked the tuskvor in the chest hard enough that Pouncer heard the bones break even over the din of the battle. The tuskvor bellowed again but kept moving. One of the balls tore away the mazourk's station, and panic filled him for an instant when he didn't see C'mell there. He looked wildly around, saw her behind him, closing the last buckle on her grav belt. She tossed him his own and he quickly snapped it around his waist even as the tsvasztet lurched again, its forward securing lines torn loose. He leapt for the still-stable back section as the tuskvor reached the fleeing catapulter, goring it and throwing its handlers to the ground to scramble out of the way before their now lifeless creation toppled on top of them. The violent motion parted the last restraining rope, and the front half of the travel platform slid off its back and splintered on the ground as the tuskvor stabbed at the corpse again and again. Another tuskvor blundered past with its tsvasztet on fire, this one crushing the rapsar handlers who'd managed to escape. Ferlitz-Telepath's travelpack was there, and he reached inside for the remaining two vials of sthondat extract. Already he was craving the power of the mind-trance. I am not addicted, I will only use them if I need them. Even as he thought it the impulse seized him to throw them away, to remove even the temptation to start down the path of Patriarch's Telepath. Their injured tuskvor staggered forward and the tsvasztet lurched dangerously. Reflexively he slid the vials into his hunt pouch and drew his variable sword as a two-sword of rapsar raiders appeared before them, their riders firing crystal iron crossbow bolts. Pouncer saw Battle Captain go down, a bolt through his neck. He looked around, counting his small band. Night-Prowler was nowhere to be seen. But C'mell is still here. That fact was more important than he ever could have imagined. Pray the Fanged God she is still here at the end of this.
The raiders circled, waiting for their prey to go down, and then a fresh shower of arrows rained down from nowhere. Pouncer looked up and saw the walls of the Citadel looming over them, mirror bright with mag armor engaged, with Tzaatz archers firing from the battlements. Here and there other tuskvor had made it to the walls, standing to their broad chests in the Quickwater. Their mazourk had hauled their necks high to act as assault ladders for the Heroes swarming up them. Further back, siege engines mounted on the backs of other tuskvor pumped ballista shafts and showers of catapult stone at the enemy to clear the way for the attackers.
“Leap!” Pouncer roared and leapt himself, just as their tuskvor collapsed half on the bank, half into the Quickwater, and the back half of the tsvasztet tore off to sink in the current. His grav belt surged as he arced for the parapet. A Tzaatz was waiting for him there, but he parried the first attack with his variable sword, then cut the attacker in half with a well timed counterswing. Pain flared in his mind as his opponent died, the echoes of the mind-trance spiking his death agony into Pouncer's awareness. The distraction nearly cost him his life, but he saw, in a single brilliant flash, the second Tzaatz, felt his developing attack and the rage in his killscream. He pivoted, slicewire blurring, and the other was dead and falling over the edge.
Shapes landed beside him. The two kz'eerkti. Where are the others? There was no time to worry about that. “Tskombe-kz'eerkti! Your mate! Go to that tower!” He pointed to Forgotten Tower, overshadowing the Puzzle Garden, where he could sense the dulled awareness of the tortured Cherenkova-Captain. “Go down the stairs, all the
way. At the bottom there is a corridor with cells. At the end there is a chamber. She is there!”
Tskombe nodded in acknowledgment. Pouncer had changed since his recovery from the sthondat drug. He was more distant, more commanding, and the depth in his eyes was frightening. What does he see there? He followed the pointing talon to the distant tower, locking it into his memory. All along the wall czrav warriors were gaining the battlements, and a storm of arrows came up from the courtyards and the inner curtain wall. He looked to Trina and swallowed hard. It wasn't the first time he'd faced death in combat; it was the first time he'd brought a teenage girl with him. But I couldn't leave her, and she's lucky… He would need luck himself, and lots of it. He grabbed her hand and they leapt for the tower, grav belts whining as they arced toward it.
Pouncer watched them go, and more shapes landed beside him, C'mell and Z'slee, he knew without looking. In the courtyard below them the Tzaatz were bringing up another siege rapsar with powerful secondary legs meant to cock and fire the heavy ballista mounted on its back. Behind him Ztrak Pride had secured the outer north wall and Dziit Pride were leaping in to reinforce them. The attackers had taken heavy losses, and their hold on the battlements was precarious. If the rapsar below came into action it could cost them that tentative victory. He reached out with his mind, felt again the presence-of-absence that was the Black Priest. He is close. He found another mind, nearby, Ftz'yeer Leader waiting in ambush in the Citadel's central courtyard, ready to lead his elite force out on his master's command, to crush any czrav penetration of the inner sanctuary. He knew beyond doubt that Ftzaal-Tzaatz was directing the defenders now. Behind him he sensed his own forces, the vast array now embroiled in lethal combat with the rapsari. We need reinforcement or we will lose the battle here and now.
He keyed his beltcomp. “Assault prides, leap to the north wall. Support prides, saturation fire from the east across the Quickwater.” Below him the Tzaatz were bringing their launcher creature to bear. He screamed and leapt, and the two kzinretti screamed and leapt with him. As he touched down a sword of Tzaatz leapt at them. I will earn victory here, or a death of honor.
Seize what your enemy desires and he will conform to your wishes.
— Sun Tzu
There was little arrow fire as Tskombe jumped for the tower, and he and Trina touched down unmolested. The tower was old, its stones worn smooth by the ages, and a tightly coiled spiral stairway ran down it. He led the way down. It coiled down to the left, as tower stairs did on Earth. And on Earth that's done so that right-handed attackers fighting up the stairs have their sword arm hampered against the inner wall. It occurred to him to wonder if kzinti had a preferred hand, and then he had an answer as a warrior screamed and leapt in front of him, variable sword held in the left hand with maximum freedom of motion. He parried the blow awkwardly with his right hand, then thumbed the retractor until his slice wire was dagger short. He ducked the next attack and stabbed it down, getting the tip into the shoulder articulation. The hit wasn't crippling, but his opponent fell back, bleeding, and dropped his weapon. Tskombe reextended the slice wire and swung, this time getting the edge inside the Tzaatz's belly articulation and gutting him. So the spiral is no help, but being on the high ground is always an advantage. He leapt over the body, nearly slipping in fresh spilled blood and continued down.
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.”
&nbs
p; 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'eerkti. 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.”
