Pouncer twisted in midair to land on his feet. His leap aimed for one of the huge conquest drums — its taut drumhead was the only thing in the room that might serve to break his fall. He hit it and the drumhead burst with a deafening boom. He hit the floor beneath it hard on all fours, joints collapsing to absorb the impact. His chin hit the ground, snapping his head back and making the world spin. He stood, steadying himself on the drum's rim and tried to get the scene to focus.
All eyes were on him, czrav and Tzaatz alike. Ftzaal-Tzaatz had not been so lucky in his fall. His body lay bent and broken over the fallen beam section. Ears ringing, Pouncer staggered from the wreckage of the conquest drum and went to his recent adversary, kneeling to pick up the Black Priest's finely carved variable sword. The slicewire was still extended, and he turned to the head of the hall. The fall had hurt and he was exhausted and disoriented, shaking now in reaction to the fight juices. It took a long moment to realize that he had won. He tightened his grip on the variable sword. I will not falter now.
“Kchula!” Pouncer bared his fangs and found a sudden, deep anger welling up that made it difficult to speak coherently. “Your brother is dead. Stand your ground.” Rage is death, a tiny voice said in the back of his mind, but he found it too easy to ignore.
Kchula-Tzaatz rippled his ears and raised a beamrifle from under his cloak. “It was amusing to watch you fight my brother. I'm going to enjoy killing you, kitten.”
He brought the weapon to his shoulder and triggered the aim dot, swung it to target Pouncer. The silence in the room was complete; even breathing seemed to have stopped. None of the czrav were close enough to intervene, and Pouncer couldn't move fast enough to get out of the line of fire before Kchula could shoot.
“You have no honor, Kchula.” Pouncer spat the words, hoping the insult would goad him to leap, but in mind space he saw Kchula's intention to kill form, the command to pull the trigger welling up in his forebrain. The split second's warning might have saved him, if he had anywhere he could dodge, but he didn't and with his eyes he saw his own death arriving in the mirror-bright bore lens of the beamrifle.
There was a piercing scream and suddenly the welding of mind-picture and sight dissolved as a tawny shape flew through the air. Scrral-Rrit-Second-Son had leapt at Kchula, his w'tsai extended to kill. Kchula whirled and fired but the beam went wide, spraying shards of ancient stone from the wall, and then Scrral-Rrit was on him, driving the primitive weapon up through the gap between breast armor and belly articulation, up beneath Kchula's ribcage to slice organs and sever arteries. Kchula screamed in pain, falling backward under the attack with arms flailing, and the beamrifle went flying. Scrral-Rrit withdrew the weapon as blood geysered from the wound, then stabbed again, this time up and under Kchula's chin, driving it up into his braincase.
The flailing stopped, and at that instant Second-Son screamed, his back arching as though he'd been scourged, every muscle in his body tensing. He stayed like that for long heartbeats, then pitched forward, face down in his victim's still oozing blood.
The zzrou! “Brother!” Pouncer leapt to Second-Son's side and slashed his robe open with one claw swipe. The zzrou was there, a dull octagon on his brother's shoulder. He tore it loose, ripping flesh as its teeth came free. It was a reflexive act, and it would have emptied the zzrou's poisonous contents into his brother's body, had it not already done so itself when triggered by the cessation of Kchula-Tzaatz's heart. P'chert toxin dripped, oily and acrid, and Second-Son was gasping on the floor.
“Bring a Healer!” Zree-Rrit's command brooked no hesitation, but when he turned back to face the dying puppet-Patriarch, Pouncer's voice was soft. “Breathe deep, brother, help is coming.”
But Second-Son's breaths came quick and shallow, his eyes glazing as his eyelids fluttered. “There is no time… I have paid for my dishonor.”
“A Healer, now!” Pouncer lashed out the order, and Medical Officer of the Tzaatz was running forward, slaves and kzinti alike scattering before him, but Second-Son's eyes were already shut, and his breathing had stopped. P'chert toxin was swift.
“You have earned your name at last.” Pouncer cradled Second-Son's head in his lap, the universe reduced to the still-warm body before him, the last of his family. The sthondat-induced mind awareness was strengthened by the physical contact, and he felt the last glimmer of his brother's consciousness dwindle and fade, until all that was left was an overwhelming emptiness.
Medical Officer arrived and dropped his crash bag, slapping a spray infuser against Scrral-Rrit's chest and starting the elaborate dance of resuscitation. Pouncer stood and moved back, knowing it was too late. P'chert toxin attacked the central nervous system, destroying the cell proteins at the synaptic gap. The countertoxin could prevent the damage from occurring, at the cost of doing some of its own. It could not reverse it once it had occurred. Medical Officer would try of course, the oath of his craft demanded nothing less, but he and Pouncer and everyone watching knew he would not succeed.
Pouncer stood back to give him room anyway, looking at the silent body. My brother is dead, he isn't coming back. Some things even the Patriarch could not command. I am alone now.
“No, you will never be alone again.” It was a familiar voice. He looked up and saw C'mell, her armor smeared with Tzaatz blood.
“How did you…?”
“The sthondat works both ways. Your thoughts leak, to those sensitive enough to respond.” She nuzzled him. “You are safe, my Hero, and you are Patriarch.”
Her physical touch triggered a flood of emotion, and he saw himself through her eyes, felt her love as physical thing, but mind awareness was receding again, further this time as the effects of the drug wore off. He felt his deep connection to his mate growing indistinct. How can I live in a universe so dark, having seen the light? The instinct was to get more, immediately, to not only prevent the fading of mind awareness but enhance it to its ultimate capacity. This is the sthondat addiction. The realization didn't help, the pull was strong. But sthondat drug cripples too. He remembered Patriarch's Telepath's emaciated body lying on its gravlifted prrstet. This blade cuts two ways. The Patriarchy needs a strong Patriarch. I cannot be slave to the drug and rule. He stood to face the room. More czrav were filing in, disarming the Tzaatz who were still there. The struggle was over. It was hard to know what to do next.
“Patriarch!” Czor-Dziit abased himself at the entrance as he came in with thrice-eight battle-scarred warriors behind him.
“Patriarch!” Zraa-Churrt did as well. “Patriarch…” “Patriarch…” One by one the assembly made their obeisance.
“Enough.” Pouncer held his paws up for silence. “Stand, all of you! You who have seen fit to fight with me, those who stood by Rrit Pride in its darkest hour, you all are worthy enough to stand with me. As we have shared battle, we will share victory.”