by Larry Niven
Outwardly Joyaselatak was calm, secure in a resilient anti-acceleration bubble full of oxygenated fluid. Inwardly its torochord buzzed with chatter between its five self sections. The beauty of the view belied the danger. This planet was the citadel of the enemy. In order to evade detection, the ship would enter the atmosphere at meteoric speeds. The larger and more powerful pair of the ship gravity polarizers would be used—and burnt out—in a massive last-instant surge to check its fall. Secrecy was essential. The enemy’s sensors and weapons were crude but effective and getting better all the time, augmented by technology stolen from captured Jotok merchants. Attempts to reconnoiter with ultra-low albedo satellites had failed. The enemy detected the remote spies and destroyed them before they even entered orbit, thus the need for a risky ground-based scout mission. Joyaselatak hoped it would reach the surface intact and undetected. What the enemy lacked in technology they more than made up for in unrestrained aggressive energy. And as they mastered what they stole, their technological deficiencies diminished. It had taken a fifth of a lifetime for the news of the predators to reach the Jotok Trade Council at the speed of light and two-fifths more— unaccelerated times—for the probeship that had brought Joyaselatak to arrive at this distant star. Who knew what tricks the aliens might have developed in the meantime.
“You mock my honor!” Swift-Son of Rritt-Pride snarled the words through a fanged smile and dropped to attack-crouch in the dust of the pride circle. A pair of frolicking kits startled and bolted for their mother. Pkrr-Rritt watched from the den mouth with mild interest as other kzinti backed up to make room for a challenge duel.
Opposite Swift-Son, Rritt-Conserver shifted only slightly, but his new posture balanced him at once for attack or defense. “I taught you honor, kitten,” he snarled back, deliberately insulting. “You mock yourself.”
Swift-Son circled slowly, watching his opponent, looking for an opening. He was worthy of his name— his claws were faster than lightning, and his teacher was old and slow. Swift-Son could take him, perhaps. Hadn’t he already two sets of ears on his belt? His anger told him he could win, but Rritt-Conserver smelled so calm.
“I will go east for my Name. I will steal the Mage-Kzin’s totem!”
The old kzin pivoted slightly to keep his eyes locked on Swift-Son. “You will defy the Fanged God and destroy us all. If this one has taught you no better, it deserves to die. Come claim your due.” Rritt-Conserver purred the words in the humbled tense but his meaning was clear, and his belt held more ears than a tangle-tree held leaves.
But to back down today of all days, and in front of the pride and the Patriarch, that would be too humiliating. Swift-Son held his crouch and let his rage give him strength. “I am an adult and I choose my own Namequest.” He breathed rapidly through his mouth, priming his blood for battle.
His teacher abandoned sarcasm for the mocking tense. “You are a fool. You would refuse a name from the Fanged God for a kitten’s dream.”
“Only a fool would die in the desert for another fool’s prattlings.” Swift-Son gathered himself for the killing leap. But the old kzin’s move had brought a rock from the fire circle into Swift-Son’s touchdown area. A poor landing was quick death, and so he did not leap.
Rritt-Conserver noted the young kzin’s restraint and relaxed his snarl but not his posture. “Remember the portents,” he said, almost gently. Swift-Son stared back at him, eyes locked and muscles tensed for attack.
The tableau held as Pkrr-Rritt and the other kzin watched in silence. This was the critical moment. Swift-Son was acutely aware of their gaze. He could not back down now! But his teacher’s words rang in his brain. Never in his life had the Fanged God sent portents, though the pride-ballad spoke of them. Then, on the eve of his Namequest, the Sky Streak had fallen in the east with thunder to shame a cloud burst. And that very morning he’d watched with his own eyes as the Fanged God’s talons raked four cloud-slashes across the sky from west to east. Strong portents, indeed, and the Fanged God was not to be denied.
And Rritt-Conserver was still so calm, and perhaps he had a right to be. Too many of the ears on his belt sheaf had once belonged to Swift-Son’s playmates. Wild-Son’s challenge hadn’t lasted as long as his leap; their teacher had disemboweled him before he hit the ground.
Swift-Son had reacted without thinking and now had to pay with honor or blood. Sheath pride and bare honor—Rritt-Conserver had taught him that, too. It was the hardest lesson of all. For many, too hard. With an effort that made his limbs tremble, Swift-Son settled onto his belly from his attack crouch and lowered his head to expose his neck.
“Forgive this one’s insolence, Honored Teacher,” he choked out in humbled tense. “If the Fanged God wills it, I will go west for my Name.” He waited for the symbolic neck bite that would confirm his master’s dominance.
To his surprise it never came. Instead Rritt-Conserver grabbed Swift-Son’s paw and drew him upright. “The Fanged God has marked you for special honor, Swift-Son. You are the krwisatz—the-pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. From today you will have a verse in the pride-ballad.”
A shocked murmur went through the gathered watchers and Swift-Son’s sense of humiliation evaporated. A verse in the pride-ballad! In each generation, only one, the Patriarch, was assured such tribute, and only after he died. In four generations only eight verses had been added, three of them during the Great Migration, when the pride moved west into the heart of the savannah. He groped for words, but a rake of his teacher’s paw through the space that separated them cut him short.
“It is time.”
Swift-Son, still trembling from the confrontation, fought himself under control and turned to Pkrr-Rritt. The other kzin had drawn in closer now—his brothers, his seniors—pridemates and friends, all wanted to share this moment with him. He drew strength from their presence and spoke with confidence. “Sire, I hunt a Name of Honor for Rritt-Pride.” He intoned the traditional formula.
“Clean kill, Swift-Son.” The Patriarch answered with a formality seldom accorded one who had not yet earned a Name.
The young kzin raked his claws across his nose. As the bright drops of blood that affirmed his fealty beaded, he turned and shouldered his hunt pouch. Then, without a backward glance, he disappeared into the long grass of the savannah. When next he entered the pride circle, he would be a stranger to it.
Rritt-Conserver watched him go with a mixture of pride and concern. In all but size Swift-Son was the pride’s best—proud and smart. Rarely did he need to be taught a lesson twice. But though he was a more than promising youngster, even he did not possess the gift that Rritt-Conserver had been born with, a gift he had not realized was a gift until he learned that his pridemates did not share it. That gift had told him long ago that Swift-Son was krwisatz for Rritt-Pride. Now the Fanged God’s portents confirmed it. Swift-Son’s success smelled of fat game for the whole pride; his failure would bring—who knew? All he was certain of was that whatever the Fanged God had in store for Swift-Son in the deep desert meant change, great change that would be shared by all the pride. Of all his pupils, it was well that it was Swift-Son who had to carry that responsibility—but change never came without a price.
* * *
It was a hard day’s lope to the western edge of Rritt-Pride territory where lay Swift-Son’s watch-rock. As a hunting blind the site was ideal: it jutted from a small rise just below the crest and facing the prevailing wind, with a view over the long grass to the game trails by the pool in the rivulet below. Beyond that the golden savannah sprawled to the curtain of the sky, now painted a brilliant red-gold by the burning solar disk that had just touched the western horizon. Behind him the crest dropped away steeply, securing his back. The rock was just the right shape for comfort, and sandy-orange, a fair match for his pelt. When he jumped to its surface he could feel himself donning the land like a cloak.
His watch-rock was not just a favored hunting spot, it was his refuge. Swift-Son felt more need to understand than d
id most of his peers; many times he had come here to mull over a problem undistracted, or just escape from the rough and tumble of pride life. Today might be the last time.
Many young kzin went numerous seasons wandering the wide savannah before returning with a Name. Many young kzin didn’t return at all. Some found homes with other prides. Some became nomads who’d been able to claim a Name at the pride-circle but not a place within it. Still, far fewer returned to pledge fealty than left to seek a Name, and Swift-Son knew how his Patriarch and the other adults dealt with the hapless vagrants they caught on Rritt-Pride territory. Pride-kin or not, he knew how they’d deal with him.
A Namequest didn’t have to take that long. Last year Eldest Brother had left on his Namequest, and by the next Hunter’s Moon had brought back a tuskvor herdmother eight times his weight, with tusks as long as his arm and razor-sharp horns. That he had killed it was amazing enough; that he had survived the deed bordered on mystery. On his return he’d dumped the huge skin triumphantly into the pride-circle and claimed the name Iron-Claw, following the legend of Graff-Trrul, who had challenged the Fanged God and nearly won. Iron-Claw now carried an iron w'tsai, the symbol of adulthood and his fealty to Rritt-Pride. Eldest Brother was strong and cunning and his name proclaimed his ambition. One day he would be Graff-Iron-Claw, and one day after that he would challenge the Patriarch for leadership of the pride. If Pkrr-Rritt was wise, he would yield with only a token fight.
Not yet though. Pkrr-Rritt was strong himself, and what age had taken from him in speed it had given back in experience. If Iron-Claw was wise, he would wait until victory was sure. If not, he would never live to become Graff-Rritt.
Swift-Son wasn’t as large or strong as his brother, but he had the eyes of the Hunter’s Moon, and moved like a shadow in the night. He did not covet the double-name of a Patriarch, but he had dreamed of a Name-quest that would bring him even greater honor—the Namequest Rritt-Conserver had just denied him. He had planned to journey east beyond the edge of the world to the stronghold of the Mage-Kzin and steal their magic totem. What name could he not claim with such a triumph? He already knew his choice. Even now he secretly thought of himself as Silent Prowler— following Chraz-Mtell-Huntmaster-of-the-Fanged-God, he who with infinite patience stalked the ever-fleeing zitragor across the summer skies. His chosen quest had honor enough and more for such a name—the Mage-Kzin were dangerous adversaries.
Old Ktirr-Smithmaster often told the story of the destruction of Stkaa-Pride at tale-telling. His words conjured the flames of the pride-circle fire to life as he told of great monsters that devoured the land, and death magic that burned as it killed. More unbelievable still, he claimed that the Mage-Kzin females could talk and duel like males. His tale might be a fable, but the old crafter’s ropy scars lent weight to his words. He was Stkaa-Pride’s sole survivor, and many logs would burn while he related the fall of his pride and his own escape.
The story haunted Swift-Son, for the Mage-Kzin spanned the gap between legend and reality. Their powers were beyond imagining, but the dust clouds on the horizon that marked the passage of their demon-beasts were real, and grew closer every year. And every year the pride moved west to avoid them, away from the fertile heart of the savannah and toward the fringe where the desert began. Pkrr-Rritt was a wise Patriarch and he didn’t want Rritt-Pride to follow Stkaa-Pride into the worlds of myth. Privately, Swift-Son wondered how much farther they could go; already game was much harder to come by. No longer could the pride’s hunters rest and yawn for seven days of each eight-day cycle. In two or four years, there wouldn’t be enough to support the pride at all. But if Swift-Son could gain the Mage-Kzin’s magic totem, Rritt-Pride would gain the power the Mage-Kzin possessed, would become the Mage-Kzin. No longer would the pride be driven into the desert like prey over a kill-drop—and Ktirr’s long dead pridemates would be avenged.
He’d dreamed of that quest for years, right up to this morning. Of course he had challenged Rritt-Conserver. His reflexive honor required it even though his laggard thoughts had finally overruled his fanged hind-brain. It was only now, a dais march behind him to cool his blood, that he fully realized what he’d been given in return. Krwisatz-portents in the sky. Could it be that he was to become a fated warrior, like those in the ancient sagas?
He watched the sky fade from red-gold to indigo to black, and the stars begin to wheel across the heavens in their eternal patterns. What might not come of this Namequest? Already he was promised a verse in the pride-ballad, even before he’d earned a Name.
But honor brought responsibility. A krwisatz could be bane or boon. Rritt-Pride must benefit from the role fate had given him. Only then would he prove himself worthy of his destiny and his name.
Were it not for that destiny he might have turned away. He was poorly equipped for the hazards of the deep desert—his belt hunt pouch held flint, iron striker, and tinder, his bone skinning knife with its granite whetstone, and his carefully hoarded store of iron tradeballs. On his back he carried a section of tuskvor skin for a shelter, a waterskin, and a larger pouch of dried meat. Better perhaps to turn north, avoid both the desert and the Mage-Kzin. He could live off the land and with great luck avoid the prides that held it. Perhaps eventually he could claim a Name somewhere else. Surely even life as a homeless nomad would be better than death in the desert?
To voice the question even silently in his mind was to answer it. His doubts held no honor. He was Swift-Son, chosen krwisatz of Rritt-Pride by the Fanged God, and none were as silent or stealthy as he. He was Silent Prowler, fated warrior stalking with the spirit of Chraz-Mtell-Huntmaster-of-the-Fanged-God and the night belonged to him. He purr-growled deep in his throat and slid off his watch-rock into the shadow, picking his course westward under the silent stars by light of the High Hunter’s Moon.
Thirty-two sunrises later found him deep in the desert. As the initial excitement had worn off, his doubts returned. On his fourth day, perhaps inspired by Elder-Brother-Iron-Claw, he had been rash enough to stalk a young tuskvor. Just as he crept into pouncing distance, his prey’s mother had appeared, scented him and charged. He’d had to scramble ignominiously for his life or be impaled, then crushed, then trampled to mush. He’d spent the night hungry in a lone tangle-tree, and the very next day he’d narrowly avoided ambush as he crossed Dcrz-Pride territory. It had taken half a day crawling paw by paw down a maze of dry gullies to avoid the hunters stalking him. Twice they flushed him and he’d fled like a zitragor while w'tsai-hunting spears hissed past. Only when darkness fell had he finally been able to lose them.
He’d recognized two of his pursuers, Pouncer and Furball of Dcrz-Pride. He’d sparred and joked with them at the yearly Great-Pride-Circle, while Pkrr-Rritt and the other patriarchs pledged fealty to Graff-Kdor, the Great Patriarch of all the wide savannah. The memory of happier times weighed heavily on his mind, for it underscored his outcast status. True, he could have made a border gift and crossed Dcrz-Pride as a guest, but he couldn’t afford the tradeballs, and he needed all his kills just to keep himself fed. A Namequest was a test, he knew, and if it were easy there would be no honor attached to it.
On the eighth day he’d left the savannah and with it danger of attack, but simply traveling the desert was dangerous. He never ventured more than a day from a waterhole and it often took many exploratory probings to locate the next one to westward. Game was vanishingly scarce, and he was reduced to digging grashi from their burrows. They were tasty morsels, but not much nourishment for the time involved; eight were barely a mouthful. Thus he spent his days just getting enough to eat. Moreover, the digging filled his nose and pelt with sand. No matter how much he groomed he was never entirely free of the grit. He’d lost his skinning knife in a sandstorm. Four or eight times a day he needed that knife. Four or eight times a day he used his claws instead. They were quickly becoming ragged and torn from the abuse. Claws were for killing, not cutting roots in pursuit of burrowers.
It was not at all his idea
of what a warrior did. True, the sagas often told of long and arduous treks, but when curled up by a crackling fire in the warm den, a journey even twice around the seasons was over in a few words so the tale-teller could get on to the exciting parts. Swift-Son was beginning to realize that it was not just courage but tenacity that made a Hero. Even both qualities might not be enough. Perhaps his role as krwisatz was simply to walk until he died—perhaps the portents were meant for the pride—to keep a rash youngster from bringing the wrath of the Mage-Kzin down upon them all.
As he left his watch-rock, Swift-Son had been sure he was fated to become a legend. But now, alone in the vast, uncaring desert, it seemed a faint hope at best. Normally he preferred only the Hunter’s Moon for company. Now he yearned for a pridemate. Somehow the verse to his honor in the pride-ballad now seemed a poor return for a slow, lonely death.
Thus he pondered gloomily as he trudged through the shifting sand on the night of the thirty-second day. Already the sun was starting to peep over the horizon behind him. Soon he would have to stop and take cover from its burning glare and he had yet to find a waterhole. If he didn’t find one soon he had nothing to look forward to but a day of fitful rest beneath his tuskvor skin with a few mouthfuls of grashi and not enough water. Then the next night he would trudge back to the last waterhole and spend the morning digging the last grashi out of their holes there. He estimated that there were enough burrowers left for one more journey westward and then if he didn’t find anything, he’d have to go back to yet another waterhole for food. He desperately needed a genuine kill to provision himself properly, but he hadn’t seen so much as a zitragor since his third day in the desert.
Suddenly he realized that something had been tugging at the edge of his awareness. Instantly Swift-Son crouched behind a nearby bramblebush, ears swiveling up, nostrils flaring, lips twitching over his fangs as he scanned the crest of the dune ahead. Awareness grew in him that the texture of the sand was wrong. The desert floor had become loose and crumbly, as though it had become the spoil mound of some gigantic grashi burrow. The smell of hot dust and bramblebush ahead was not quite right.