John F. Carr lives in Southern California with his wife and two children. He has written three novels, the most recent. Great Kings’ War, with Roland Green. He has edited four collections of H. Beam Piper’s work and has coedited, with Jerry Poumelle, several different anthology series, consisting of some twenty individual books. He is a war-game enthusiast, active among collectors of miniatures and fans of medieval and Renaissance history. Recently he came in third in the Los Angeles Regional Monopoly Tournament. John is currently dividing his time between work on Gunpowder God, with Roland Green,

War World, with Jerry Pournelle, and the Vice-Presidency of

Science Fiction Writers of America. In his copious spare time, he

plays the guitar and, occasionally, sings.

Iron Claw stretched his eight-foot frame along the top of the sun-warmed rock and caught himself almost purring in contentment. Purring was for females and cubs, not the chief of a sixteen-member pride; he resisted the impulse.

The winter had been bad. Two of the kittens had frozen at night. Iron Claw himself had felt the aches and pains of battles fought before Silver Tip, his favorite mate, was born. But none of this was any reason to turn kittenish just because Sun had once again turned its warm face toward the earth.

Lately his mind had taken to wandering through the hills and valleys of his past. Sometimes the memories were so real that he could almost feel the body heat of White Nose, his first mate. At times his wanderings reminded him of the stray thoughts of some female two-legs. Was old age at last creeping up on him?

He’d lived a long life for a prairiecat, like his sire and most of his siblings. A few silver hairs nestled among the black here and¹ there, but he was still strong enough to rip the hindquarters of a standing buffalo. Maybe all the winters were just piling on top of one another.

The loud call of another male prairiecat tore the still morning air.

Iron Claw leaped up and gave an answering screech. The hair around his neck bristled as the call was returned. His first challenge of the year!

He hadn’t had to fight much the past few years, not since he’d learned that killing his opponent not only ensured that he would not return next year but awed the other males in the area. Last year’s only fight had been with a scraggly old range cat who’d decided to make one last foolish try at siring a litter. The pride feasted off his carcass for two days.

“Come on, old cat,” mindspoke his opponent. “It’s time to join your ancestors. Come down off that rock before I drag you off.”

Iron Claw was amused. The mindspeak sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His mates were silencing the growling kittens as they hastily left the area. He heard another cry and spotted the waving grass that gave away his opponent’s position.

“Afraid, old kitten-eater? You should be. I’m going to take your bones and spread them with the pride’s droppings!”

“You sound brave enough,” said Iron Claw. “I will remember your words when I hang your tail from my enemy tree.” Another way he’d found to spread fear was hanging the severed tails of his dead enemies on trees at the borders of his territory.

The challenger left the grass and strode boldly into the clearing before the rock. Iron Claw was astonished at the size of the young black-and-white male. He was a full third larger than Iron Claw.

Then the challenger turned toward Iron Claw, and the empty socket of his left eye revealed his identity. One Eye was one of Iron Claw’s sons from half a dozen winters ago. As a two-year-old, he’d lost that eye when he’d tried to feed on his father’s fresh kill. Iron Claw hadn’t meant to harm his son, but the bloodlust had still been roaring in his ears. Also the rule of the pride was strict: Iron Claw first, then the nursing females, then the kittens and other females.

“So you have returned, my son, to try once again to steal what cannot be yours.”

“No, old cat. Just to take what you can no longer hold.”

He spoke with such confidence that Iron Claw felt unfamiliar stirrings of fear. He roared his defiance and leaped down from the rock.

He’d hoped to land full on his opponent and bury his teeth in One Eye’s neck, but the larger cat moved with surprising speed. All Iron Claw felt was the scrape of his claws on the other’s rump.

One Eye glared, then jumped. Iron Claw lunged, and they met in a tangle of teeth and claws. Both were now on their hind legs, whirling and lunging. Iron Claw felt pain blossom where his right ear had been and roared satisfaction when teeth took out a mouthful of fur and skin from One Eye’s neck. He was maneuvering for his favorite trick of putting his right paw into the lower belly to gut his opponent when he felt pain tearing through his left hind leg.

Iron Claw fell clumsily, his leg burning. One Eye leaped on him, chewing fur and flesh from his shoulder and neck.

With a last desperate lunge, Iron Claw threw off the younger cat and ran.

His leg had been badly hamstrung, but he’d had enough hurt paws and legs over the years that he could run almost as fast on three legs as on four. His sudden retreat took a battered One Eye by surprise, and he was almost a score of body lengths ahead before One Eye took up the chase.

One Eye was faster, he knew, but if he could reach the stream he could climb one of the trees. For once, he was the lighter cat. He felt some sympathy for those few who’d used that trick to escape him in the past.

Then the unexpected—Silver Tip bursting out of the grass, to attack One Eye from behind. Iron Claw felt a surge of affection for his former mate, then mindspoke her a fond farewell, promising to return. He might not be able to keep that promise, but he had little fear for her. One Eye might give her a thrashing, but not kill the dominant female of a pride he hoped to rule.

Meanwhile, Iron Claw continued to cover ground as fast as his three good legs would carry him. It would be tempting fate to remain in this land before his leg was well and he could once again fight on equal terms. Well, healthy terms, at least. ¹

Iron Claw ran toward the winter lands. There he could be sure that none of his enemies were lurking, either two-legged or four-legged.

Djoh woke up thrashing, to a pitcher of cold water thrown in his face. He could tell that it had been snowing again by the cramps in his lame leg. It was going to be another long day; not even a faint blush of sun showed through the scraped-ox-gut window.

“Up, lazy one. There’s work to be done. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen,” ordered his father.

Djoh quickly dried his face with the bedclothes before the water froze, then hopped out of bed and began dressing. His room was in the eaves, with little between him and the shingles. It was almost as cold as outside. He only fell twice before he had his trousers on, then pulled on his homespun shirt and made his way down the ladder. If he didn’t reach the kitchen before his father had finished, there would be no breakfast this morning.

He managed to arrive in time. Nee, his older sister, was serving hot porridge. His younger sister, Lilia, hung on to his mother’s dress. She was only four years old, but even she had her chores; there were no idle hands in Peetuh the carpenter’s house.

His father cleared his throat. “Today I want the joists for the supports on Oskah’s bam done. I've already trimmed the logs and stacked the lumber.”

Djoh shook his head in wonder. No matter what else could be said about his father, he never asked more than he gave. This morning he must have used some of their precious oil for light to get so much done before dawn. Oskah was a wealthy farmer and an important man in the area; his goodwill was worth having. Clearly Peetuh meant to earn it.