Five Odd Honors by Jane Lindskold Page A

made a mistake, and as they grew weary, one of them was certain to make that mistake. Thus far she had avoided close combat, where forepaws would grip shoulders and rear paw would rake belly and flanks. Yet that moment was approaching, for soon neither of them would have the strength to dodge. Close combat—and mortal wounds—would be inevitable.
    As Pearl slashed out with her right paw, lunging to bring her fangs to bear at an apparently open spot on her opponent’s right shoulder, she forced herself to consider.
    Pearl tried to remember the location of the ruins of the theater where once she had sung and danced the role of a Roman slave. She had been circling back to take another look at those ruins when Thundering Heaven had sprung upon her. They shouldn’t be far away.
    Pearl waited until Thundering Heaven was rearing back to bat at her again with paws that were beginning to slow in the rapidity of their blows—but then so were her own. This time, instead of blocking and counterattacking, she wheeled and began to run.
    Pearl knew the danger of this tactic, for tigers prefer to spring on their prey from behind, so much so that the sight of a face apparently staring at them—as in a mask worn on the backside of the head—has been known to dissuade even a confirmed man-eater from attacking.
    Pearl had no mask. Indeed, the sight of her apparently fleeing should give Thundering Heaven the renewed strength of confidence.
    Yes. He was giving chase. She ran harder.
    Even on the damp ground of the jungle, Pearl could hear him coming after her, hear the dull thuds of his paws hitting the ground. She ran, long body stretching out with each leap, rear legs gathering in behind to push off almost before they touched. Panic at what would happen if Thundering Heaven should come close enough to leap onto her back gave Pearl the added speed she needed to stay just that far ahead.
    Mossy green over glimmering white, the pillars of the stage set showed against the browner trunks of the natural trees, obvious now that Pearl knew what she was looking for. She did not dare slow, but ran near to one of the pillars, cornering like a horse on a barrel racing course, close but not too close. She wove in and out of the pillars, thinking crazily of Little Black Sambo with the tiger chasing him, racing round and round the tree until at last the tiger turned into butter.
    Pearl cut closer, closer, not quite touching but feeling her fur brush against the moss-covered, vine-shrouded plaster. Her control was perfect, that of a dancer who could perform complexly choreographed routines, that of an actress who always kept within her spot. Then it happened.
    Thundering Heaven—larger than she was, made furious by having his prey in reach but ever just out of reach—cut too close to one of the pillars. Had the pillars been the trees they resembled, this would not have mattered. He maybe would have bruised a rib, but would have come on hardly hindered.
    But these were not trees, but plaster pillars. A full-grown tiger can weigh more than six hundred pounds, and Thundering Heaven was a very large tiger indeed, a very large tiger running with all the strength of his powerful hind legs.
    Thundering Heaven crashed into the pillar, and the pillar broke. The upper part swayed and snapped, falling heavily to smash not onto Thundering Heaven—that would have been too much luck—but into the next nearest pillar.
    Pearl, hearing the thud of impact, the snarl of rage and indignation that burst from Thundering Heaven as the “tree” broke, dared wheel about.
    She saw her attacker momentarily halted, ears and whiskers twitching in every direction as he sought a clear path out of the rain of falling plaster.
    Plaster is neither rock nor wood, but heavily packed, sodden with drifting mist, it is not insignificant either. Moreover, not just one but several pillars were falling.
    Pearl stood on her hind legs and pushed with her forepaws against the nearest intact