Five Odd Honors by Jane Lindskold

She was the Tiger. She—Pearl Bright—specifically and uniquely her.
    Pearl was caught up in the realization of what this strange landscape might mean when there was a snarl behind her. The snarl became a blur of orange striped with sun and shadow, then a bright slice of pain in the vicinity of the back of her neck.
    Pearl ducked, jerking the skin of her neck scruff loose before the fangs that sought a solid hold could fasten tightly. She knew full well that a tiger’s favorite hold is on the scruff . If powerful jaws cannot break the neck vertebrae beneath, then, with a slight readjustment, a crushing grip can suffocate the victim.
    She ripped herself free, seeing the blood that welled forth sparkle in the air like liquid rubies as she spun and attacked her yet unseen opponent.
    Fingernails like claws had been a cliche of the “bad girl” when Pearl had been younger. Even now she often made a quiet statement of her formidible femininty by painting her long, perfect nails a deep scarlet. But in reality fingernails are nothing like claws.
    Fingernails do not slide from sheaths within the toes as Pearl’s did now. She pivoted on her hind legs, reveling in the flexibilty of a torso that would let her strike directly behind even though the lower portion of her body was still oriented forward.
    Fingernails are not curved like hooks, nor are they sharp and thick enough to rake through a dense fur coat and draw blood from beneath the hide. Claws are and claws can. Pearl saw the flash of ivory fangs as the tiger who had attacked her snarled and sprang backward.
    But her attacker did not retreat. Neither did she. Snarling, he reared onto his back legs, swiping out with his right paw in feint and challenge. Pearl noted the reach of that slashing paw. It confirmed what she had noted at the signpost tree. Her opponent was larger than she was, his reach greater.
    Pearl dared hope she was the stronger, but she could not be certain, not until they grappled. Grappling was not a test she was eager to make, for if she guessed wrong, she might not come away alive from that deadly embrace.
    Tail lashing, Pearl struck back—right paw, left paw, right—gauging her opponent by his reactions, seeing if he could be led.
    Despite the blood that darkened his fur where her claws had cut, he was unfazed. Pearl flattened her ears and snarled at the confidence he exuded. He had no doubt who would win this match. He was even playing with her, aware of her uncertainties.
    Raw anger powered her next blow.
    When Pearl struck there was nothing of the test about it. Her opponent—Thundering Heaven, she suddenly remembered—her father, Thundering Heaven, grown sure of his superior reach, did not dodge in time. Pearl caught him solidly on the side of his head, cutting into an ear. It was not a deep cut, but beads of blood dripped from the dark ear tip to stain the white fur of the spot that dotted the back of his ear, dripped into the white face ruff below.
    Thundering Heaven snarled and lashed out at Pearl, but she was ready for his counterattack and sprang backward. He lunged, rearing up to take advantage of his greater size, springing forward. She leapt to one side, trying to get an angle from which she could reach his vulnerable hindquarters. He scooted them out of her reach, re orienting with incredible swiftness.
    They sparred, occasionally drawing blood, but neither doing more than scoring the other’s coat. Eventually, on each, golden orange fur acquired added stripes of muddy, dark red stripes that, trickling into the white fur of ruff and underbelly, marked the course of a wound in vivid scarlet.
    They snarled, chuffed, and hissed as they fought. Soon both were panting, foam and saliva dripping from open mouths . They were well enough matched—her greater dexterity eliminating the advantage of his greater size and weight, both of them skilled in combat—that Pearl began to feel the battle could go on forever.
    Or at least until one of them