“It is inevitable that Meerz-Rrit's resources exceed yours. Were it not so you would not desire his station.”
“You give me empty philosophy, brother. You've spent too long with the Black Priest cult. I need information. I will be on that planet in his stronghold. I will be vulnerable, do you understand? What if we have been compromised?”
“We would know by now. The Patriarch would have acted and our informants would have passed on the information.”
“Your faith in your informants is touching.”
“I have no faith in any single source. But put together, yes, I am confident we would learn of anything important.”
“Perhaps the Patriarch has laid a trap.” Kchula's hind claws extended on their own, digging into the resilient flooring.
“Are you nervous, brother?” Ftzaal kept his voice carefully neutral.
“Nervous.” Kchula looked up sharply, searching the black kzin's face for any sign of impertinence. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“I and my Ftz'yeer will be your shield.” Ftzaal lifted the ornately carved pommel of his variable sword from his belt and hefted it.
“As skilled as you are, two-eights of Ftz'yeer will not stand against a fortress full of Rrit.”
“They will when the Rrit are busy defending the walls from our warriors. Great rewards demand great risks.”
“Great risks are managed through control of information.” Kchula snapped the words. “We lack any.”
“We have what we need.”
“Ktronaz-Commander's Heroes?” Kchula-Tzaatz changed the subject before it came any closer to his own fears.
“They will leap on your command.”
“The rapsari are prepared?”
“Rapsarmaster has been industrious. The beasts are thawed and ready, and the assassin is already in position.”
“You are certain of that?”
“As certain as possible. It was launched; I have had no word of its interception.”
“It is set then.” Kchula paused, realizing that he was now merely hesitating. “Curse the Fanged God, I wish I knew what was in the Patriarch's mind.” He spat at the now comatose Telepath.
“We have the traitor. If everything else fails the traitor will not.”
“Yes, we have the traitor.” Kchula breathed deep to calm himself. Ftzaal-Tzaatz's words were meant to soothe, and so he responded as if they had worked. There was no point letting his brother see concern turn to fear, but inwardly he remained unconvinced. There was always a balance to be struck between risk and reward. In this case the reward was tremendous, the risks… acceptable. In games of stealth you could never be sure who was the stalker and who the prey. The hidden blade was the deciding factor, but was the traitor really theirs?
There was no way to know, and no point in delaying. Kchula turned and strode back onto the navigation bridge. “Raarrgh-Captain, have my shuttle prepared!” His voice was harsher than it needed to be. Better they fear my wrath than sense my fear. Great rewards demand great risks, Kchula-Tzaatz well understood the dynamics of power. Usually he managed to arrange it so the reward fell to him while the risk fell to someone else. Not this time.
The warrior is known by the clarity of his thoughts and the purity of his purpose. To clear your mind you must rise above your emotions. Fear is death, for fear brings paralysis, leaving you helpless before your foe. Rage is death, for anger brings the kill fury, which slays first your own judgment. The warrior stands his ground with clarity of purpose, attacks without rage, defends without fear. The warrior can never be less than honorable, for the warrior chooses with clear mind a purpose higher than himself.
The arena floor was deep in sand — difficult footing. The smell of hot dust filled Pouncer's nose as he shifted his rear leg, the pommel of his variable sword in rest position. He thumbed its extend button and the almost invisible magnetically stiffened wire slid from the coil inside to its full length. He centered the weapon between his breastbone and groin and tilted his grip until the blue marker ball at its tip was aligned precisely on his opponent's nose: v'scree, the resting guard position of the single combat form.
A leap and a half away Myowr-Guardmaster's eyes narrowed to slits, ears flat on his skull as he changed stance to receive the attack.
“You're a coward.” he spat. “You don't deserve the name of Rrit.”
The insult stung, and Pouncer dropped to attack crouch and leapt to avenge it in a single, fluid motion. His weapon came back, kill scream echoing from the bare stone walls. He landed and let his momentum carry him forward, sweeping the sword at his adversary's throat where there was a gap in his mag armor, but Guardmaster was already dropping to a knee and his own sword was coming around to amputate Pouncer's legs. Pouncer leapt vertically, and the blow went under his feet. He swung again on his way down but the blade glanced off Guardmaster's mag armor. Guardmaster kicked up from his position on the ground and connected with Pouncer's wrist, sending his variable sword flying. Pouncer fell back, empty-handed as his opponent rolled to his feet and advanced on him, variable sword raised for the kill. Fear is death, he told himself, picturing the ground behind him as he moved backward, watching not his opponent's weapon but the shoulder of the arm that held it. Before the weapon could move the arm must move. Before the arm could move the shoulder must move.
“You don't deserve the name of sthondat!” Guardmaster spat the words in disgust.
And before the shoulder can move, the mind must move. Myowr-Guardmaster was confident, his stance solid. Pouncer could sense his developing attack…
There! He screamed and leapt before his opponent could, claws extended as though they could rip mag armor. Guardmaster pivoted out of the way and Pouncer went past, to roll and recover and attack again, but Guardmaster fell back and countered. As he did, Pouncer dropped sideways to the ground, kicked out, and connected with his opponent's ankle. Guardmaster tumbled forward, overbalanced with his forward momentum, and Pouncer rolled to one side to avoid the molecular blade coming down at his head. He flipped to his feet, only to be knocked backward as his opponent back-kicked from below and swung around. He found himself flat on his back with the tip of Guardmaster's variable sword a paw-span from his nose. Fear is death, he told himself again, but fear was not the only emotion that led to death, and he could see his own face snarled in kill rage in the perfect mirror of Guardmaster's breastplate.
“Your line ends here, sthondat.” Guardmaster's words were laced with contempt, and Pouncer knew he had lost.
“Hold!” By the wall First Trainer had his arms upraised, stopping the duel. “First positions.”
Panting hard, Pouncer retrieved his variable sword and made the chest-to-nose-to-chest gesture that acknowledged his opponent's victory. Guardmaster responded in kind. “Well fought, Pouncer. Well fought, but you leapt with anger again.”
“You taught me yourself, when in doubt, attack.”
“And were you unsure of what I was going to do?”
“I knew you were about to attack.”
“I know you knew, I saw it in your eyes. So you had no doubt, but you attacked anyway. When you are sure of your opponent's intent, anticipate it in order to defeat him. When you are unsure, attack to make him unsure also, but do not overcommit yourself.”