by Paul Chafe
Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free.
The herds are shut in byre and hut—
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
O hear the call! Good Hunting, All
That keep the Jungle Law!
—Rudyard Kipling, “Night-Song in the Jungle”
The jungle had changed as they pressed deeper into it, and Ayla Cherenkova found herself awed. Spire trees soared a hundred meters or more overhead to widespread crowns, their huge trunks buttressed like ancient fortresses. Beneath their canopy it was perpetually twilight, the air humid and rich. The ground was covered in something halfway between moss and fungus. For the most part the undergrowth was scattered and the going was easy. They had followed the valley to its heart until they came to a vast, coiling river and were tracing its course steadily downstream. The Tzaatz had long since given up pursuit. She’d lost track of how long it had been—a month, two months, maybe more. More important, there had been no sign of grlor for days. Without grove trees or thorn bushes for cover, she, Pouncer, and T’suuz would be sitting ducks for the predators. There were lesser hunters, still huge and fearsome by Earth standards, but none who would attack two adult kzinti when they had a better option, though they might have made an easy meal of a lone human. She was careful to stay with her guides.
She had lost weight since entering the jungle, but her skin was taut over muscular ripples she hadn’t seen since she was a cadet, and she no longer noticed the higher gravity. Her UNSN uniform was gone, rotted and torn until it was unwearable. She’d replaced it with zianya skin tanned in a blend of myewl juice and resin trapped from the short, bushy shoom trees, then sun cured in a clearing and stitched together with sinew. Her boots were holding up well, thankfully, but already she knew how she was going to make their replacements when they finally succumbed to the rugged terrain. I am adapting to this environment. She knew now where to look for the fresh vlrrr shoots that hid pulp as sweet and thirst quenching as watermelon beneath their tough exteriors, knew how to hide her trail with myewl leaf, and knew she had to climb out of the river bottom to a dry sandy ridge to find it. Given any reasonable approximation to a blade she could skin, cut, and fillet a kz’zeerkti or one of the rabbit-like vatach with skill and efficiency. She could track the larger fauna, like the huge but slow-moving czvolz. They were supremely docile, and would be easy meat save for the putrid oils that pervaded their flesh. They, and seemingly they alone, grazed the moss-fungus from the forest floor, and she reckoned it was this that gave them their distinctive stench. Even grlor would not touch them, so said Pouncer. She could navigate without a compass, for a short distance anyway, using just the contour lines of the land. The jungle was becoming less an impenetrable tangle and more a world she could move through. She still itched everywhere, still longed for a bath, and she had no illusions that she would ever come to enjoy this lifestyle, but she was surviving, and on Kzinhome that was something.
The river banks had steepened, and she was climbing ahead of the kzinti over a small rise when she froze in her tracks. The jungle still surprised her every day, but not like this. Before her was an immense beast, easily fifty meters long, like a vast, long-necked sausage on tree trunk legs. It was covered in shaggy fur, and long, sharp-looking tusks protruded from its upper jaw, complementing the large horns on its forehead. Its eyes were small in a head the size of a barrel. Adrenaline spiked in her system, and for an instant she feared a predator more fearsome than the grlor, but then it munched down a bush, almost in a single bite, and she realized it was an herbivore. Behind it were more of the creatures, most smaller, some larger still, moving placidly amongst the towering trunks. Ayla held her breath. Even the infants were the size of rhinoceros. Here and there five-ton youngsters nursed from brontosaur-sized mothers. The entire herd was moving slowly, taking a bite, meandering a few paces, taking another bite, moving again.
Nursing. That struck Ayla. Despite their primitive, dinosaurlike appearance they were mammalian, or at least pseudomammalian.
“Tuskvor!” T’suuz had come up beside her, her voice a hushed snarl. “We lack hunt cloaks.”
“We must move back before they see us.” Pouncer’s voice was equally quiet.
Ayla looked at him. “What will happen if they do?”
“If they sense carnivores nearby they will charge. We will be crushed. They are feeding up before their migration. There may be grlor nearby too, hoping to pick off stragglers.”
Ayla nodded, swallowing hard. It was difficult to imagine a pack of grlor settling for stragglers, but when faced with a herd of tuskvor that was what they’d have to do.
One of the tuskvor snorted and turned its head in their direction, tossing its tusks. They backed slowly down the hill and backtracked a kilometer before starting a wide detour up onto higher ground.
The going was harder farther from the river, with steep slopes and smaller trees, which meant denser undergrowth. They kept at it. Better to err on the side of caution with a herd of tuskvor on the move. They made it high enough that the grove trees started again, and Pouncer killed a k’ldar, a larger, forest dwelling cousin of the zianya. Cherenkova smoked the meat that was left over and they spent the night in one of the trees, not as comfortable as a shelter built on the ground, but at least they were out of the way of predators.
The next day they came to a vast clearing, an entire valley, kilometers across, waving with the tufted plants that passed for grass on Kzinhome. It seemed as though a piece of the now distant savannah had been transplanted into the heart of the jungle. A forest fire had swept through the area within the last few years, clearing out the canopy. It must have been ferocious to consume the mighty spire trees the way it had. Most had burned completely, only charred remnants remaining, but at intervals tremendous trunks still reached for the sky, dead and gray, like accusing fingers pointed mutely at the lightning god who had destroyed them. Finger-thick saplings clustered here and there. The savannah’s victory would be short lived. The fast-growing grass would take what gains it could, but where the river valley gathered enough moisture to support the trees, it was the trees that would ultimately triumph.
In places the ground was still crunchy, and just beneath the surface the soil was ash gray. Cherenkova worried because of the lack of cover, but Pouncer assured her that grlor didn’t like to hunt in open areas. They crossed it, grateful for the easy going. A small stream rolled down the center of the valley to feed one of the tributaries that in turn fed the main river. They stopped there to rest and eat in the heat of the midday sun. The kzinti napped while Ayla took advantage of the relatively clean water to wash herself and her clothes. She took her time, enjoying the cool luxury of a pool beneath the shade of a cluster of saplings. When she was done she climbed up the bank, and froze.
Six kzinti, loping through the tall grass toward them. They came steadily, unhurried, not concealing themselves. Quickly she woke Pouncer and T’suuz. Pouncer rolled to his feet and put a paw to his variable sword, but T’suuz stopped him “Show no threat. These will be a pride of the czrav, bound by blood allegiance to our mother’s pride. We will be safe with them.”
The newcomers carried journey packs of tanned leather and their bows and wtzal hunting spears were well crafted of wood, but the arrow and spearheads glinted with the heavy gray of crystal iron and the colors in their cloaks shimmered and shifted to blend them into the background. Some carried weighted throw nets, others game bags laden with small quarry, but if they were a hunting party they had not caught anything large enough to justify their numbers.
“Hunt cloaks.” Pouncer kept his voice low. “Sophisticated for primitives.”
T’suuz twitched her tail. “You should know by now that czrav are anything but primitive.”
The newcomers formed a semicircle. Four of them were female, all lean and muscular, and none of them looked friend
ly.
“I am Kr-Pathfinder.” A leopard-spotted male took a step forward as he spoke. “You cross Ztrak Pride territory with no border gift.” He spat the words, and the warriors behind him were in fighting stances. Pouncer assessed them. They know the single combat form, or a variant. A wooden spear was no match for a variable sword, but six to two were not good odds against opponents who knew what they were doing, even with that advantage.
“Apologies.” T’suuz claw-raked, speaking before Pouncer could. “I am T’suuz, daughter of M’ress of Mrrsel Pride. This is my brother, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and the kz’zeerkti emissary, Cherenkova-Captain. We meant no trespass, but claim sanctuary by blood allegiance.”
Kr-Pathfinder fanned his ears up. “Mrrsel pride. Hrrr. What do you seek sanctuary from?”
Pouncer stepped forward, gesturing T’suuz to stay back. “Tzaatz Pride has declared skalazaal. They came with genetically engineered war beasts and have overthrown my father and taken the Citadel of the Patriarch. They seek my ears for their trophy belt.”
“Why did you come here?”
“We stole a vehicle and flew it until it was out of power, where the Long Range meets the Mooncatchers. We have been traveling on foot since then, to reach the jungle and Mrrsel Pride.” He made the gesture of deference-to-an-equal. “I add to my sister’s apologies. We were not aware of the pride boundaries. I offer this kill as border gift.” He indicated the dismembered remnants of the previous day’s k’ldar. “Poor as it is, it comes with the gratitude of the Rrit, and my blood debt to your Pride.”
“Hrrrr.” Kr-Pathfinder turned a paw over, considering.
The other male stepped forward, younger than the first and heavily built. “We will take your malformed kz’zeerkti creature. It will make good sport.”
Pouncer twitched his tail. “The Cherenkova-Captain is under my protection. It is not prey.”
The large kzin slashed the air with his claws. “Kr-Pathfinder, this nameless kitten stretches tradition too far. He trespasses and then claims sanctuary, insults us with burnt meat, prey taken in our own territory! Let us take what is ours.”
Kr-Pathfinder held up a paw. “Tradition is tradition. First-Son is under skalazaal and his mother’s pride is blood-bound to ours. He is entitled to sanctuary, and we must honor that, and honor his protection of his kz’zeerkti too. He may stay with us for the Traveler’s Moon unharmed.”
“Kr-Pathfinder, you cannot be serious!”
“Why would I not be, Sraff-Tracker?” The leader fanned up his ears.
“This kill is an insult.” The large kzin spat. “The meat is burned and worthless.”
“The kill is nothing. He claims Mrrsel Pride blood, and he has given us blood-debt.” The tension between the two went further than the issue at hand. One day they would fight a challenge duel.
“He is a Rrit, a noble and no czrav of Mrrsel. As for his blood debt…” The warrior spat in contempt. “…he is a nameless kitten, half outbred. He holds back the kz’zeerkti and the kzinrette too. Let him give us them as border gift and save his strakh for the kzintzag.”
“I am sworn to the protection of the kz’zeerkti and my sister both.” Pouncer took a step back, casually adopting v’scree stance. T’suuz moved sideways, putting herself between Cherenkova and the others. Cherenkova backed up, but there was little point to the maneuver. If it came to a fight Pouncer and T’suuz together couldn’t save her, and even if she started running now there was no way she could hope to evade a pride of kzinti on the hunt. If she still had the beamer…but she didn’t. She could only watch for an opportunity to act, if one came.
“Sraff-Tracker is right.” A female stepped forward, firm-muscled, an adolescent just ripening into fertility. She wore decorative ear-bands and stood with cocky self-confidence. “Take away his weapons and I’ll fight him claw to claw.”
“He has asked sanctuary, C’mell.” Kr-Pathfinder’s voice took on an edge of snarl. “Tradition demands we give it to him.”
How do I respond to the challenge of a female? Pouncer sized her up, could not help noticing her sleek shape and well tufted tail. As I would any other threat to those I protect. If she leaps, I will kill her.
“Tradition demands we defend our borders.” Sraff-Tracker let his fangs show. His belt was heavy with ears. “He trespasses, insults us with burned meat and empty promises while he keeps both food and female in front of us.”
“Do you challenge me?” Kr-Pathfinder laid his ears flat. Perhaps the duel would be right now.
Sraff-Tracker laid his own ears flat too, lips curling up to reveal his fangs. For a long moment the tableau held, but ultimately Sraff-Tracker did not leap.
Kr-Pathfinder turned to Pouncer. “We welcome you as our guest, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit. Will you share meat with us tonight?”
“I am honored, Kr-Pathfinder, and my Pride is honored.” Pouncer carefully ignored the female C’mell, who was looking at them with ill-concealed hostility. Aside from her and Sraff-Tracker the remainder of the Ztrak hunters seemed to accept them, warily. That was enough for now.
Kr-Pathfinder swung his tail up and around in a wide circle, the hunt sign for gather. Pouncer looked around in momentary confusion, saw four more kzinti appear a good bowshot downstream, another four upstream. Understanding dawned: these were cutoff parties, set to intercept them if they fled in either of the two easy directions. This was not a chance encounter; we have been well stalked. They set their ambushes close without sound or scent. My sister is right—the czrav are more sophisticated than they appear.
A third cutoff group appeared over the slope behind them. Pathfinder set a course and the group followed. Cherenkova was pleased to discover she could keep up. She was growing tougher in the jungle. I have survived so far. I might yet survive this.
Hunger leads the hunt.
—Wisdom of the Conservers
Ftzaal-Tzaatz stretched and yawned luxuriously on his portable prrstet. He rolled to his feet and walked out of the pop-dome that served as his lair and onto the sunburnt savannah. His was not the largest pop-dome, but unlike anyone else’s it was his alone. The afternoon heat soaked into his dark fur, a welcome change from the cool shade in his dome. Gravcars with beam weapons secured a perimeter around a small hillock in the grassland; closer in, his elite Ftz’yeer patrolled on raider rapsari. He had been on the hunt thrice around the Hunter’s Moon, but now his quarry was close, so close he could almost smell it.
He went to a smaller pop-dome beside his command lair. Guards jumped up to claw-rake as he came in, but he focused his attention on the figure who did not, lolling on a narrow pallet. Telepath was moaning incoherently, eyes rolled back in his head, mucus streaming from nose and mouth. He was in an advanced state of sthondat withdrawal. Ftzaal had seen the symptoms before. Denied the drug that freed its powers, a telepath’s brain punished itself through the pain center. Telepath’s skin would be on fire, the agony penetrating to every bone in his body. It was the weakness of telepaths that they needed the drug, that they would dishonor themselves to get it. It was the strength of the Black Priest cult that they controlled the drug, and so controlled the telepaths. That was the way of the world.
Ftzaal knelt by the pathetic figure and shook him roughly. “Telepath. Telepath!” It took him several tries to get a response.
“Please, the sthondat…” Telepath’s head lolled, his eyes opening but refusing to focus.
“Not until you find the kz’zeerkti for me.”
“Please, no! It dreams of burned meat and boiled roots.”
“Can that be worse than the cravings?” Ftzaal held up an infuser, forced Telepath’s muzzle around so he faced what he needed so badly.
“Please, I can’t tell without the drug. I need it…”
“You can tell without the drug, and you will. There is only one human on the planet. Yesterday you said it was close.”
“No, no not close, it’s far away.” There was desperation in Telepath’s voice.
�
��Where?”
“I can’t feel it. I need the drug. Please…”
“No drug until we have it.” He leaned close suddenly, snarling in the other’s ear. “What are you hiding, Telepath?”
“Nothing, hiding nothing.” Telepath convulsed and closed his eyes. The mind-trance was on him, not deeply, but enough for Ftzaal’s purposes.
Ftzaal watched him impassively. There was fear behind the pain. I have found something deep. “Then where is it?”
“In…” Telepath’s voice was halting. “In a valley…there’s grass, a stream. Yesterday the trees were burned, it’s with kzinti, many kzinti.”
“Many?” Interesting. “Is First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit there?”