Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

Do not pity me. I will kill you!

Ar’tor drew back against the tree. “All right. I. . . have no choice.”

Neither of us has a choice. We have no time. Old Cat looked Ar’tor up and down. You are a poor cub, even for your kind. You will probably die.

“I’ll live long enough,” he said, not even knowing what it was he was saying.

Old Cat’s massive old head nodded in approval. Perhaps you will. Come. Come with me. Do not try to run away, or I will kill you.

Ar’tor set off, and looked over his shoulder just to be sure that he wasn’t dreaming. No, he wasn’t. The enormous black creature followed just behind him, stalking him, as he walked upstream, pushed through the thicker brush, heading into . . . what?

II

By the time that Ar’tor reached the plateau, he was utterly exhausted. He had crawled through ice-crusted bushes and climbed over treetrunks and finally climbed the side of the mountain his people called Misttop until every muscle in his body screamed for mercy.

But always just behind him, implacable and gilded, stalked Old Cat. And when he thought about falling back into those waiting jaws, Ar’tor redoubled his efforts and pushed onward and upward.

When at last Old Cat mindspoke, Now. You may stop.

Ar’tor dragged himself up and looked down on the valley, the Hollow, the distant silver thread of the stream dividing Windrunner territory from that of the Steelteeth. And beyond that, he could see the beginning of the Lowlands. The rest was lost in mist. With a strange, warm pride, he realized that he might well have been the very first human being ever to see this vista.

And Old Cat stood next to him, looking down over the valley, and when he mindspoke, there was something that Ar’tor took almost for wistfulness. You are not the whelp I feared. 1 can use you, manchild. Be grateful. If it weren't for that . . . if you fail me . . .

Old Cat switched his tail and snarled, mindspeaking a blast of directionless rage. Now. Rest. You will need it.

Ar’tor wandered across the plateau. It was no more than two hundred yards long, and fifty deep before Misttop began to rise once again. It was thinly wooded, with little grass, but clutches of bushes and a few straggly trees fought for survival. He found a place where the mountain rock split wide enough for him to crawl into. There, protected from the elements, he pulled his cloak from around his shoulders and balled it up, making a pillow of sorts.

Old Cat slept in front of the fissure, staring out at the lip of the plateau. Ar’tor tried to close his ears, but there was no way to close his mind. The grief poured out from Old Cat like a pall.

Something was being pushed against his face. Ar’tor coughed himself awake. He reflexively pushed the object away.

it was the haunch of a goat, still oozing blood. Ar’tor jerked up in shock, and looked at Old Cat, who wagged his dark head side to side.

Your reactions are pitiful. I could have chosen more wisely.

“Chosen for what?”

Eat.

Ar’tor grumbled, but crawled out of the rocks. He gathered moss, and scraps of wood. He searched them carefully for ice crystals, then heaped them together with tinder from his pouch. Flint and steel produced sparks, and in minutes he had a small fire. Chip by chip he fed it, until a decent cookflame had been built. He spitted the haunch and roasted it.

While the joint drooled goat fat into the flame, he watched

Old Cat, who sat watching him. The feline considered his every movement like a seer examining the contours and textures of deer spoor.

Ar’tor ate, still keeping silence. What did the animal want? It looked at him. Perhaps it meant to torture him, to exact some particularly cruel and lingering revenge.

He managed to keep bolting the food down even when the thought of those yellow eyes squeezed his stomach.

When at last he was finished, Old Cat said, Take your knife.

Ar’tor drew it, and suddenly the fear did rise up, without anything to hold it in check. He stood before Old Cat, three hundred pounds of venomously murderous animal, growling now, teeth bared, flanks heaving.

/ am going to kill you now, Old Cat said. Prepare, manling. I want my teeth in your vitals, my claws ripping at your testicles. If I cannot have Tluman, I will have you. Prepare to die.

Old Cat stalked forward. Ar’tor stopped breathing, panic binding his chest. Then he realized that if this was the last moment of his life, then the least he could do was to die like a Windrunner, He crouched and held his small, pitiful blade before him, baring his own teeth.

Old Cat leapt, and Ar’tor slashed with the knife once, twice, all resolve suddenly disappearing before the onslaught of fang and claw. A mighty buffet struck his arm, and it went numb to the shoulder.

He found himself on the ground, dazed, wondering how to spoon his spilled brains back into his head. He rubbed his hair and checked his fingers: no blood. He groped for his blade, but couldn’t find it. He mentally searched himself for wounds, and found none. Old Cat stood over him, one paw pinning Ar’tor’s chest to the ground. Old Cat stared deeply into his eyes. Its breath was hot and wet and ripe, the smell of an animal that liked its meat still quivering.

Gods of Spring. It is going to eat me slowly. Old Cat will reach out now and bite away my face. It will chew my ears and lips and leave the eyes, let me watch as it pulls my guts out and plays with them on the ground. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. . . .

Old Cat stared at him.

Death. There were no options, there was no hope. This was his moment, the moment that came for all creatures. In a moment he would know the answer to the question that had plagued wise men since the beginning of time.

And somehow, through the terror, a voice that was definitely Ar’tor’s whispered: Then let it be.

And another voice joined it, this one the sibilant growl of Old Cat.

There is a place, it said. A place in you where there is no fear. Your dying place. Every animal knows it. Those oj your people who are called warriors know it. To let the place they stand be the place they die. The sights they see to be their last. With that nearness to death, you can kill. This you must find.

“What do you want from me?’

/ WANT NOTHING FROM YOU! I DEMAND! Old Cat’s slitted eyes blazed with sudden hatred. This is my price for your life. This, and none other. You do just as I say. You will ... or you will die.

Old Cat walked back over to the knife. It curled a paw, batting the sliver of steel back to Ar’tor.

Pick it up! Try again!

Ar’tor picked up the knife again. Flushed with embarrassment andiconfusion, he braced himself and waited.

Old Cat insolently walked up to him, staring into his face.

No. You are not ready to die. You are not ready to kill. Perhaps . . .