Man-Kzin Wars IV

Crevasse to The Lakes. He will have to follow, so you’ll know where he is, but you’ll already have passed through, so he won’t know where to find you.”
“I like it.” The slave-trainer kzin became Mellow-Yellow, half Jotok, slipping along swiftly through all the little shortcuts he knew, until he came to the hill with the three giant trees that could grow here because of the ceiling vault, carved by tons of rock that had collapsed during the excavation, and now supported by a cathedral of arches. While he climbed he was looking intently into the woods across the depression for an orange-red blur.
Disaster is always abrupt. He met his enemy. In the wrong place. Five kzin-lengths in front of him, wearing that persistent grin.
They both fell into an instant crouch.
His mind reeled. What had happened—a light breeze? for critical moments blowing in the wrong direction? Had his enemy smelled him coming? and simply waited? He made an instant tactical assessment. Puller-of-Noses was unaware of the Burr Crevasse or he would have blocked off that escape route. It was still available if he could dance his enemy a few paces downhill.
“There’s no grass to eat here, Defecator-of-Undigested Grass.”
“You swore before witnesses that you would let me live.”
“That was then. We have many lives and one death. You’ve already lived an extra life. Today I have sworn to kill you.”
Chuut-Riit had talked about the value of the unexpected tactical option. Trainer leaped, without grinning, without screaming, while an incredulous Puller-of-Noses shifted just too late to save his balance—simultaneously, a reflexive swipe, accurate, deadly, disabled Trainer’s right arm. They were both bowled over, taking out a tree before bouncing to their feet. Blood poured from the arm. But the coward was now on the right side of the Burr Crevasse. Facing the wrong way.
He couldn’t run toward that escape. He had no way to defend his back.
Five kzinti screams descended from the trees, four arms wrapping around the enemy warrior while the fifth ripped his nose open. Before the attack was over, Long-Reach was jumping out of harm’s reach. He skittered away, then turned to face the kzin. Motionless. It was a draw. The kzin could run him down, but he could climb a tree faster than any kzin could follow.
“A slave who attacks a kzin is warm meat!” snarled Puller-of-Noses while the blood ran into his mouth. “I’ll kill you later!”
“There are three of us,” said Long-Reach.
The kzin’s eyes scanned the treetops rapidly, looking for the others. Nothing. When he turned back to his kzin target, he was alone. Chagrin. Both coward and slave were gone. No matter. All he had to do was follow the blood.
Trainer-of-Slaves jimmied himself down through the Crevasse at a record pace, one-armed, rocks ripping gashes out of his hide, leaving a trail of fur and blood as he bounced to the level below. He felt no pain. He ran. At first he gave no thought to obscuring his trail. What was the use? Hssin-Liaison or Puller-of-Noses or Second-Son-of-Ktrodni or whatever in hell was his name would follow him to the ends of the Patriarchy right now, fangs ready for the kill.
In neat livery of green and red stripes, Joker swung out of the sky. “Follow me.” He scrabbled along the ground, picking a route by some criterion Trainer-of-Slaves did not understand. What greater mortification could there be than to have a slave lead him in flight! “Make for the water,” said Joker before swinging back up into the sky to disappear.
Bolting, driven by the fear, all else lost to his mind, he reached The Lakes, exhausted, bewildered that a relentless Puller-of-Noses had been unable to follow. His arm was torturing him. His disgrace was complete. Of course, there was always humor in every situation. He had been a successful decoy.
Are the man-beasts doing any better than my wretched self?
He trudged a circuitous route back toward the ledgeway where the hunt’s prey had been hiding. They were gone. He found a happy Chuut-Riit instead, relaxing, playing a poetry game with Traat-Admiral, which wasn’t going well for the Admiral.
“Where is everybody?” asked the Conquest Commander amiably. “Is it the custom on Hssin to take afternoon naps?” He noticed Trainer-of-Slaves’s arm. “I see that my righteous Liaison officer hasn’t been able to put you out of action.” He came over and examined the wound. “I’ve seen worse.” And he began to dress the slashes.
It was only then that Trainer-of-Slaves realized how dazed he was. He was just standing there, letting one of the highest military officers of the Patriarchy fuss over a minor clawing.
“I’m all right, sir. Have we relocated our prey?”
“One is wounded. He attacked me to let the other escape. I let them both go but in such a way that they will remain separated. We may now destroy them one at a time. You’re from Hssin. You must know these monkeys better than I. It is said that as a mob they fight bravely. Do you have any information about how they fight alone?”
“These man-animals are the first I have ever met, sir.”
“Yes, they’re rare. Curious beasts. Trainer-of-Slaves, do you have an idea of what kind of slaves they’ll make?”
“I have a theory that they might be controlled through biochemistry. I would need to have a large sample size upon which to experiment in order to confirm or deny my hunch.”
“Of course. I’ll have to take you to Alpha Centauri with me. There are monkeys on Wunderland, sufficient I should imagine.”
“Dominant One, I am not qualified. Hssin-Liaison will tell you why.”
“Hssin-Liaison will tell me nothing! He’s dead. Not far from here. He was found by a scout of Kasrriss-As who was following a trail of kzin blood.” Chuut-Riit glanced knowingly at a certain wounded arm.
Trainer-of-Slaves maintained a shocked silence. His enemy—dead?
“His legs were broken and there was a stake through his eye,” said Traat-Admiral.
Like the incoming whine of a bomb, Trainer realized what had happened and who was guilty.
“He broke his legs when he ran