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

was only the searing afterimage of the plasma cone and the thunder of the blast wave. As the echoes faded, fear crystallized in his brain, but his belated reflex leap simply pitched him face-first into the sand. Fortunately, the sudden impact of his nose on a half-buried rock served to jolt him out of his blind panic. He took a deep, shuddering breath and managed to focus his eyes. Across the dune bowl, a massive boulder had been reduced to pebbles, some of which were still raining down on them even at this distance. The dry desert air smelled like the aftermath of one of deep summer’s storms. His very fur was standing on end, snapping at his skin with residual magic.

He suddenly understood how a grazing ztigor felt when it heard the hunter’s killscream. He knew this must be the magic that had destroyed Stkaa-Pride, and suddenly he mourned for Ktirr-Smithmaster’s pridemates, kzin who’d been dead before he was born. The legends said that one day the world began, and one day it would end. This, he realized, was how the world would die. He could not imagine a more terrible weapon.

“This is being magic such as is being object in your hunt?” The demon’s oddly inflected voice broke the breathless silence.

Still shaken, Swift-Son managed to stutter out an agreement. It was one thing to know one was in the presence of the Fanged God’s servant. It was another entirely to have its might demonstrated. Was there any power the demon did not possess?

“Yourself are being wanting of this weapon?” his captor asked.

Swift-Son could hardly believe his ears! The demon was offering him a weapon! It was asking him to pledge fealty to the Fanged God! Where Rritt-Pride would have given him an iron wtsai, the demon was offering this totem of magical fire. That alone was beyond dreaming, but to sit at the Fanged-God’s pride-circle! That was an honor unheard of in all but the ancient sagas.

“It . . . it would be a privilege beyond price!” He somehow managed to find the words.

“You are being agreeing to not being formal-attacking of myself and I am being freeing of yourself and being giving of this weapon to yourself.”

Without hesitation Swift-Son leapt to his feet, a little unsteadily due to the restricting cable, and raked his claws across his face in the age-old gesture of fidelity. “I vow fealty to you and to your Patriarch, Demon-Servant of the Fanged-God.” Four crimson lines on his nose made the pledge a blood oath.

His response seemed to satisfy the demon. It did something to the flat board-artifact it carried, then removed a talisman from its garment and touched it to the loop of cable. A sharp pain bit into Swift-Son’s ankle and was gone before he had a chance to react. The cable fell free. And then he was holding the magic totem, caressing it reverently as he half listened to the creature’s instructions on how to release its magic.

The demon tried to show him how to hold the weapon, but it wasn’t made for his arms and his grip was awkward. He pointed it at a bramblebush on the dune crest and pressed where the demon had indicated. The world exploded again as the weapon sent a burning bolt skyward. Static crackled through the startled kzin’s fur, and he dropped the weapon and dived behind a boulder. He emerged moments later much ashamed of himself. Bolting like a startled kit at a loud noise was not the way a member of the Fanged God’s pride-circle behaved.

He returned to the creature, half afraid his display of cowardice would result in the revocation of his newfound honors. Instead the demon simply picked up the weapon, handed it back to him, and went over it again, more slowly this time. Swift-Son paid close attention to the details.

The demon touched a protuberance on the side of the weapon and pointed to a blue light on the back of the handle.

“Armed. Being ready to fire,” said the Jotok. He touched the protuberance again and the light turned yellow.

“Disarmed. Being unready to fire.”

It indicated another part of the weapon. “Trigger. Being firing.”

Once again Swift-Son raised the weapon to his shoulder and pointed it at the same boulder. He touched the first stud and the light obediently turned blue. He firmed his grip and his resolve together and pressed the second one. Again the ravening fire split the sky. The bolt came nowhere near his intended target, but at least he didn’t turn and run.

The demon patiently took the weapon again and demonstrated the aiming arrangements. It took a while for Swift-Son to figure them out, but once he did his accuracy improved markedly. Soon he was at home with the magical weapon, able to aim and fire with a reasonable chance of hitting somewhere in the vicinity of his intended target. Still he scared himself several times and, though he didn’t know it, his mentor as well. Joyaselatak was afraid its over-exuberant student would, despite all admonitions and the overwatching AI, pump a plasma bolt into the side of its spyship and strand it forever.

Once Swift-Son could hit a target more often than not, they moved on to more sophisticated skills, taking the weapon apart and putting it together properly, reloading and solving various problems that might occur. Swift-Son found himself enjoying the challenge of putting all the pieces together just so. One little mistake at the beginning meant something wouldn’t fit properly later on.

Joyaselatak was pleased as it watched the kzin strip and assemble the weapon and perform jam clearance drills. Its student was progressing rapidly. It and its kind were clearly born warriors, needing only weapons. True, a great deal of risky work remained to be done before the primitive kzin were in a position to strike their advanced brethren. After much discussion between its self sections, it had decided on a cadre approach. The smartest, most aggressive primitives would be taken to the nearest base-star. There