The Hunter Page 14

  “Challenge!” snarled Batta Flor. “I, Batta Flor, challenge you for the right to claim Sytha Trubal to mate.”

  “No, you cannot do this thing!” cried Sytha Trubal, and she clung to Batta Flor’s arm, begging him to reconsider.

  “Please,” said Uba Mintch, his voice quivering with emotion. “We cannot lose you too!”

  “It is my right to challenge all suitors,” replied the Madrelli, suddenly sobered by his action. “Nor will I lose. It is the two-foot who must prepare to die. Sytha Trubal will be mine.”

  14

  Batta Flor’s words had caught them off guard and they stood there, frozen in place like a strange tableau as the Madrelli turned away and left the room, slamming the door behind him, the still-quivering blade a silent reminder of his angry words.

  The sound of the door shuddering in its frame released them at last and they all spoke at once, their voices jumbled together until Uba Mintch raised his hand and silenced them.

  “You must go to him, you must stop him!” Sytha Trubal said anxiously. “He will kill this one!”

  “I am not so easily killed, Sytha Trubal,” protested Braldt, all the while remembering the powerful shoulders and the long, sharp incisors that could slice through human flesh so easily. “What are the rules for this competition?”.

  Beast walked up to the upright blade and sniffed it curiously, his lips curling back to reveal snarling teeth, and he retreated, pressing himself against Braldt’s leg, growling low in his throat, perhaps scenting the bitter hatred that clung to the weapon.

  “There are no rules,” Uba Mintch said heavily as he sank into his chair, cradling his head on his palm as though it were too heavy to remain erect without assistance.

  “No rules? Why that’s crazy, barbaric!” yelled Carn. “Are you saying they just face off and fight until one of them is killed?”

  “Basically, that is the way it is done,” replied Uba Mintch. “But no weapons are allowed, the fighting is hand-to-hand. Generally, the combatants are more evenly matched.”

  “This is no even match!” Carn said hotly, advancing toward Uba Mintch until he stood directly before the old man, shaking his hand under his nose. “That kark will kill Braldt, tear him apart with his bare hands! His arms are longer and more powerful. Braldt won’t stand a chance, you have to stop this!”

  “I cannot,” Arba Mintch said in a low tone. “It is his right to demand the competition, it is the way of the Madrelli.”

  “But it is not our way, sir.” Keri joined her brother, still holding the small infant who looked from one adult to the other with a doleful expression, sensing that something was amiss and trying to decide whether or not to cry. “You are the chief, surely you can stop this fight, the people will listen to you.”

  “No, it would only make matters worse.” Sytha Trubal came forward and took the baby from Keri. “You don’t understand. Uba Mintch is not chief. Arba Mintch was chief, and now with his death, the tribe is without a formal leader. I am regent only until I marry. The man I marry then becomes chief. Uba Mintch is a respected elder, a past leader, but he does not have the power to stop the fight.”

  “Well, then you stop it!” said Carn. “You picked Braldt to be your mate. Unless you put a halt to this, you’ll have two dead mates.”

  “There is nothing I can do,” said Sytha Trubal. “My title is in name only, I have the power to choose my mate, nothing more.”

  Braldt spoke then, interrupting the conversation. “Is it allowed to make wagers, add to the stakes so to speak?”

  “Wagers are not unheard of,” allowed Uba Mintch, “although competitions such as this are infrequent. Why do you ask?”

  “I am not as certain as all of you that such a contest will end in my death. There is always the possibility that I will win.”

  “Unlikely, unlikely,” said Uba Mintch. The stripes of his muzzle had now become a dull, uniform shade of brown and his eyes were dark and joyless. “What your companions say is true. Batta Flor is the very best among us, more powerful and cunning than any two Madrelli. You cannot hope to win.”

  “Even better,” muttered Braldt. “Then, surely he would not refuse an additional wager if he is as confident of his skills as you are.”

  Everyone looked at him, wondering what he had in mind.

  “What I propose is this. If I win, Batta Flor will guide us to the cavern where the lever and the medicine box are to be found. If I lose, not only does he gain the right to take Sytha Trubal to mate, but all of our edged weapons as well.”

  His words were met by an immediate outcry.

  “You’re not pledging my weapons!” cried Carn, turning on Braldt, his hand clutching the hilt of his knife. “What happens to us if you die and we’re stuck here with no way to protect ourselves? Forget that!”

  “Braldt, think of what you’re saying,” Keri pleaded, her eyes large and full of fright.

  “What you are proposing is madness,” said Uba Mintch, shaking his head from side to side.

  “But is it allowed?” Braldt persisted. “Am I within my rights to demand such conditions?”

  The old Madrelli and Sytha Trubal exchanged glances. “Yes,” Sytha Trubal answered reluctantly. “Yes, it can be done, conditions are often set by the combatants.”

  “Good, I thought as much,” said Braldt, clearly wrapped in deep thought. “How can I make my conditions known to Batta Flor?”

  “I will see that it is done,” Uba Mintch said quietly, then added, “there is always the possibility of flight. Conceding the battle to Batta Flor without contest and retaining your life as well.”

  “But not my honor. No, that is not the way of the Duroni. Deliver the message and do not despair for it is I who will be the victor.”

  The silence that followed his words told him of their lack of confidence, but after a long moment of silence, Uba Mintch said, “I will do as you ask and may your gods watch over you.”

  “Those same gods that you say do not exist,” murmured Braldt, feeling more alone than ever before in his life.

  Messages were exchanged between the various parties, and as Braldt had hoped, Batta Flor agreed to the terms of his challenge. The time and place were established as well, the arena at the far edge of town, two dawnings hence.

  Keri and Carn did their best in the small amount of time allotted to them to change Braldt’s mind, trying to convince him that there was no dishonor in slipping away under the cover of darkness and continuing their mission. Even Sytha Trubal added her voice to theirs and their despair and desperation weighed heavily on Braldt, but he stood fast and would not give in to their demands.

  “We cannot run, do you not see that? It is useless. We do not even know the way to the cavern, whereas they know the way well. Should we attempt to flee, it would be but a simple matter to hunt us down and slay us like low-bellied cowardly snakes. They will find us no matter if we advance or retreat, it is their country, not ours, and if Uba Mintch is to be believed, we do not even have the protection of the gods to guide our steps. We cannot do anything but that which I have done. Don’t you see, we need Batta Flor to take us to this cavern. He is our only hope.”

  “You are a fool, Braldt. You will get yourself killed by this kark and us too. How long do you think they will allow us to live once you are dead? We will be killed before the blood has drained from your body.”

  “I’m glad to see you have such confidence in me, brother. You, better than any other, know my skill at hand-to-hand combat, do you not think that I stand a chance?”

  “A chance? Certainly you have a chance. For that matter, there is always a chance that Mother Moon will fail to rise or that Sun the Giver will fade from the sky and leave us in darkness. I believe your chances at defeating the kark to be equally real.”

  Carn would say nothing more and avoided Braldt from that moment on, taking his meals in silence and staying in his room whenever possible.

  Keri had become close to Sytha Trubal, finding that they had mo
re in common than differences. The baby drew them together, and strangely enough Beast had taken a liking to the small creature and allowed her to crawl back and forth over his body, flinching and whining but making no attempt to bite when she pulled his long, coarse fur in her tiny fists.

  Through Keri, Braldt learned that taking Batta for to mate was not an unpleasant thought so far as Sytha Trubal was concerned. The three of them, Batta Flor, Arba Mintch, and Sytha Trubal, had been friends since childhood and Sytha had loved them both, choosing Arba Mintch because her parents had viewed the joining as an advantageous match.

  “Sounds like my mother talking,” Keri said with a smile, thinking back on her own parents’ numerous urgings.

  Although Sytha Trubal had barely had time to comprehend the fact of her mate’s death, much less mourn him properly, it was to be assumed that Batta Flor would have been a logical choice for a mate after a decent period of mourning had elapsed. At least it had been an option before she had rescued Braldt.

  Now, her emotions were in turmoil; her mate was dead, violently killed by the hard ones; she had rescued a hereditary enemy and claimed him for a mate before her period of mourning was even begun, offending propriety and bringing herself into conflict with her tribe by her strange actions.

  Furthermore, there was the matter of the contest. There was no good solution to the conflict. If Braldt lost, he would die, and Keri and Carn would surely be slain as well, widening the hostilities between their two tribes. If Braldt won, which could not be imagined, the outcome would be even worse for Batta for would die. If he lost the match but survived, he would be required to take them to the cavern where Arba Mintch had been slain. Then, Braldt would obey the dictates of his mission that was to throw the lever, undoing all that the Madrelli had wrought and in a single motion turning Arba Mintch’s death into one of useless futility and unleashing the anger and retribution of the hard ones and the masters on the Madrelli.

  Braldt was filled with his own thoughts and kept to himself as well, emerging from his room only for meals and for occasional conversation with Uba Mintch where he asked pointed and somewhat obscure questions, all the while studying the old Madrelli’s physical structure with a critical eye.

  The giggling maidservant was politely but firmly ejected from Braldt’s quarters, while attempting to deliver an armload of fresh towels. But before the door closed on her, she was able to see that all the furniture had been moved to one corner of the room and the floor spread with blankets and carpets. Furthermore, strange bumps and grunts were often heard coming from the room, especially if one pressed one’s ear close to the wood. The maidservant thought it most peculiar but having been warned by Uba Mintch for just such an activity only two moons prior, the maidservant was forced to keep the curious information to herself.

  The second dawn arrived over the edge of the darkened horizon in due time and as Sun the Giver rose above the peaks, shedding its rosy hues on the tiers of the cold stone arena, giving the appearance of warmth without benefit of the fact, it found the combatants in their appropriate corners, attended by their various supporters. It seemed that the entire population of the town supported Batta Flor, for there was no one seated in Braldt’s end of the court save his own companions, Uba Mintch, and Sytha Trubal. And from their downcast expressions, it was easy to see that they had no confidence in his ability to defeat Batta Flor.

  It was easy to see why Batta for was the odds on favorite, for in the clear light of the rising sun, he was a magnificent example of a Madrelli male in his prime. His head was large and well formed, the ears set close to the sides and rising to the top of his skull in slender, tapering points. His eyes were wide-set and bright with intelligence as well as hatred as he in turn considered Braldt. His muzzle was brightly striped in bands of crimson, blue, and green with thin white bands separating each of the colors that were bright and bold and showed no sign of sickness or doubt. His shoulders were massive, equally as broad as Braldt’s, but thicker, more dense as though the muscles themselves were composed of heavier bands. The musculature could only be guessed at for the entire upper body was thickly pelted in a mat of coarse golden hair that glinted in the sunlight. Only his belly was bare of fur, and this was as dark as tanned leather and rippled with layers of hard muscle. The arms were overly long and powerfully made, ending in the curious fingers, long and slender and well suited to difficult, delicate tasks. Each of the fingers bore long nails that had obviously been honed to razor sharpness. Braldt studied his opponent’s hands carefully, for if the Madrelli had a weakness, surely it was his hands, incongruous on a creature so obviously designed for power.

  The lower half of the creature gave Braldt no reason for hope for the narrow, tapering waist and hips flared again into massive thighs, the short, clipped fur giving definition to the long-exaggerated muscles. The legs were short and slightly bowed, but thicker still, ending in short, wide feet with six toes—the first, opposable, like that of a thumb— and each tipped with a single sharp, clawlike nail.

  The two combatants studied each other while Uba Mintch and another official, both draped in long folds of white cloth to keep off the chill dawn, spoke quietly in the center of the small dirt-floored arena. The audience was not so well mannered and yelled encouragement to Batta Flor who ignored them as though they did not exist, staring with unblinking attention at Braldt. The spectators called out to Braldt as well, cursing him and jeering with undisguised hostility, wishing him a lingering and agonizing death. They called out bets also, but there were few takers who cared to wager on Braldt’s chances and soon those voices were stilled.

  Braldt had taken what precautions he was able to utilize. He had honed his knife and trimmed his hair as close to his skull as possible, so as to give the Madrelli nothing to seize.

  He had also shed his clothing, after deciding that it would offer him little or no protection, and slicked his body with animal fat that he used to keep his boots supple. He had asked the maidservant for a fresh supply but her reply was more of the same unending giggles. But she had passed his request on to Uba Mintch, evidently she was capable of speech, who explained to Braldt that the Madrelli did not eat the flesh of others and were themselves total vegetarians. This fact should have been obvious to Braldt for their meals, while hot and tastefully prepared, had been comprised of root vegetables, several types of cooked grains, and much greenery accompanied by a variety of breads and cheeses. Braldt had turned down Uba Mintch’s offer of vegetable oil, sensing that it would not prove as slippery nor as offensive to his opponent.

  And now the time had come for the two older Madrelli parted, each to one of the contestants and spoke to them in unison in voices that could be clearly heard by all of the spectators, even those who had arrived late and been forced to climb the broad stone steps to the highest level.

  “It is begun,” intoned the two old men, each facing the fighters, holding their gaze and commanding their full attention. “That which is begun may be ended, by death or by default. There is no dishonor in default, nor is death necessary. Either may call for a halt to the contest at any time. No weapons may be used save those of strategy and strength. He is the winner who is left standing at the end of the contest. The contest is over when it is done. I ask you now, do you wish to withdraw your challenge? Do you wish to withdraw your reply?” Both queries were met by silence although it seemed to Braldt that Uba Mintch was silently urging him to withdraw now, before the contest was begun. When Braldt did not respond, the old Madrelli’s shoulders sagged and his muzzle took on a tinge of grey, the bands of color all but overcome by his distress.

  “It is begun,” he said in a dull voice and turned aside, unable to look at Braldt again, already consigning him to the death that had so recently robbed him of his only son.

  The two old men had scarcely left the arena before Braldt and Batta for rose to their feet and began to circle, arms held apart from their bodies, eyes probing, searching for the first sign of weakness, for a mistake, a fa
tal opening that would allow them to dispatch their opponent quickly and with ease.

  Braldt, being the taller of the two, was at a disadvantage so far as protecting his midsection, for no matter how far he hunched, Batta Flor was still able to come inside with his longer reach and shorter body. And it was there that he made his first move, a lightning slash that was finished before Braldt even sensed the movement, leaving a welter of crimson stripes across his belly, the razor-sharp nails slicing through his skin as easily as a hot knife passes through butter.

  Braldt was stunned at the rapidity with which his opponent had struck. He danced backward on the balls of his feet, avoiding Batta Flor, which was not necessary for the Madrelli stood still, watching Braldt to see if the shedding of his blood was enough to convince him to concede the match.

  Braldt glanced downward and ran his fingers over the bleeding furrows. He felt the burning ache of the torn flesh, realizing that it was but a simple flesh wound and also knowing that Batta Flor could just as easily have opened him from side to side, ending the contest then and there. But he had not done so, why? Perhaps because killing Braldt would only have widened the gap between himself and Sytha Trubal, perhaps even making such a union an impossibility. It was humiliation he was after as well as defeat, a living Braldt who would grovel and beg for mercy, thus demonstrating his unworthiness as Sytha’s mate.

  All of this flashed through Braldt’s mind in an instant and he knew what it was that he had to do. Somehow he had to keep out of Batta Flor’s reach and win the match without killing or demeaning his opponent, for Batta for would rather die than lessen himself in Sytha Trubal’s eyes.

  Braldt wiped the blood from his hands, smearing it across his chest, feeling the rough scar tissue bequeathed to him by the lupebeast, and tightened his lips, determined that he would have no new scars to remind him of this day’s battle.