Choosing Names: Man-Kzin Wars VIII Larry Niven (fantasy novels to read txt) 📖

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 Namequest 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 ztigor 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 day’s 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 ztigor while wtsal-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