God of Tarot by Piers Anthony

himself up for the strike by holding the creature. A man would have been thrown over Brother Paul’s back, but the tiger’s balance and torque were different. He was lucky it had not knocked him out; if he made another mistake, that luck was unlikely to hold.
    Still, he retained a hold on its foreleg. He hauled on it and tried to roll again. This time the creature rolled with him, for its momentum was spent and it had not been able to get back to its feet. It flipped onto its back, and Brother Paul started to apply a hold-down—but realized he would then be at the mercy of those battering hind legs.
    Instead, he flipped about and caught hold of the nearest hind leg. Then he leaned back, extended both of his own feet, and clamped his knees around that limb. This was a leglock that would have been illicit in judo, but what were human legality in a life-and-death struggle with an alien creature? This was not at all the type of situation he had anticipated when he had joined the Order! Brother Paul arched his back, bucked his hips forward, and drew on the captive leg, putting pressure on the joint. He had no idea whether this technique would work on such a creature, but felt it was worth a try. A man would have screamed in agony at about this time…
    The tiger screamed in agony. Startled by this unexpected success, Brother Paul let go, just as he would for a human opponent who tapped out, admitting defeat. Too late, he remembered that this was no human sportsman, but a creature out to break his bones. Now he was in for it!
    But the tiger had had enough. It rolled to its feet, steadied itself with its tail, and leaped away as rapidly as it had come. Brother Paul stood and watched it bound across the rippling sea of wheat, relieved. He hadn’t wanted to hurt it, but had thought he would have no other choice. He was bruised, disheveled, and a bit lightheaded, but basically intact. It could have been worse—much worse!
    Motion attracted his eye. People were approaching: half a dozen men. They were armed, carrying long spears—no, these were tridents, like elaborate pitchforks, excellent for stabbing an animal while holding it at bay. Effective against a man, too.
    Somewhat nervously, Brother Paul awaited the party’s approach. This, too, was not precisely the welcome he had anticipated.
    As they came closer he saw that these men were being careful rather than aggressive. They looked all about, weapons ever at the ready, as though afraid something hazardous to bones might come bounding in.
    “Hello,” Brother Paul called. “I’m from Earth, on a special mission.”
    The men glanced at each other meaningfully. “What is your faith?” one asked.
    “I am Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision. However, I’m not here to join your society. I am supposed to—” But he broke off, uncertain of their reaction.
    Again, the exchange of glances. “Vision,” the spokesman said approvingly. He was a heavyset, black-haired man with fairly deep frown-lines about his mouth that showed even when he was trying to smile, as now. “A good selection. But I did not know it was a warrior cult.”
    Warrior cult? “The Holy Order of Vision is a pacifistic denomination, seeking always the route of least—”
    “Yet you fought the Breaker.”
    The Breaker. A fitting description! “Self-preservation compelled me. I don’t believe I damaged the creature.”
    A third exchange of glances. “The question is, how is it that the Breaker did not damage you ! We must always travel in armed parties to fend off its savagery, during that part of the day when it is present.”
    Evidently they knew the routine of the Breaker, and this was its office hour. That would explain why they had not rushed up to greet him instantly; they had had to organize their troop and proceed with due caution. “I suspect I was pretty lucky,” Brother Paul said. “I managed to frighten it away just when I thought I’d lost”
    “Even so,” the spokesman said