A hush fell over the hunters and fishers and warriors, and they listened to the jangled words of the Scoa tribe. Arn sat on an old window sill, an opening in one of the rocky ruins. Shar stood close—he had spent their time on the isle seeking out the solution or object to any thought Arn voiced. On Arn’s other side, Logern stood, with burly arms folded across his bare, muscled chest. Together, the trio overlooked their fellow tribespeople.
And across the open moss-claimed yard a force of fighters in intricate wooden masks and bone jewelry stood and bristled armaments toward them. One man stood in front of their spears and bone knives, like Trakak had during Arn’s first arrival on Scoa.
“We offered you one day of peace,” the man in front declared. He looked directly at Arn, in recognition, though Arn didn’t know him. “A sun word sealed it. But we told you ‘leave’ and you did. Now you have returned. With many more.”
Jorik looked back, from amidst the hunters. His scholar’s eyes were narrowed, waiting to see what Arn knew of these people, and what he would do with them.
Arn rolled his knuckles against the stone window ledge and then gripped his sword hilt as he stepped forward. “I have,” he said. “Across the Deep, Razaad grows hungry and thirsty for more. We have come to hunt and to learn.”
“Raz-ad should stay beyond the Deep, then,” the man replied. He beat his palms against his thighs and let out something between a growl and a moan. “I am Woko. I am chosen from my people, to challenge the chosen from your people.”
“And if my chosen wins?” Arn asked. He could name himself. He had already beaten one of their ‘chosen’, and when in far worse condition than he was now.
“The sun would show you favour you do not deserve,” Woko declared. “But the Sorca would give you a day of peace, once more.”
“No,” Arn said. The Sorca warriors hissed and tapped their weapons together, but Arn continued. “If I win, you will give us a year of peace. We will hunt Scoa however we wish.”
Nostrils flared. Woko turned toward the forest, showing Arn his muscular back, strapped with leather and bone pins. It is uncanny to garb oneself in death like that, Arn thought, though the hole in his face would resemble rot even more than their decoration.
An ancient man moved out of the underbrush, and a gasp passed through the men and women of Razaad. They had never seen someone that old before. This man had wrinkles around his eyes that reached lower than his nose and a nose that had started to tilt and sink into the gap between cheekbones. The man rasped something inaudibly to his man Woko and Woko’s angry pacing froze. The champion turned back to Arn. “Two moons. Two moons of peace, then a red moon if you have not left.”
Arn smiled. He had them. They would not bargain in such a way if they could fight the Razaad and win. It was all a bluff. This group of twenty or thirty warriors—it was a lie. Arn dragged his spear butt through the moss until it thudded against a jutting rock. “Six, then,” said Arn.
Woko turned back to the old man. The old man’s nearly hairless eyebrows raised and he said one word to Woko. “Win.”
“Six moons. We are agreed,” Woko called. He brandished his own spear—a tiny rat skull clattered from a string of beads attached to the neck of the weapon—and moved it in a circle, levelled at the Razaad tribe. “Choose.”
A few hands were raised. Arn had already chosen himself, but he let them contest for his favour for a moment first. They had been on Scoa for two days now. A few huts had been built, a few minutes hike from the ruins, but the Sorca natives had appeared at sunrise and Arn had called all his people back to the front of the ruins.
Before Arn stepped forward, he saw Taran, standing near the front of the group, calmly, with crossed arms. From here, Arn could see the profile of his jaw, growing a larger beard than he had seen on the man, and the man’s lean shoulders. Something of the image reminded him of the man in the dreamworld, perhaps, or maybe of Arn when he had been naught but a scheming hunter. Arn sniffed and tapped his spear butt against that little rock again. “Taran,” he said. His people quieted.
Taran turned back to look at him, and a small smile came to his lips. “Will you let me kill this man for you?”
“You wanted to lead my fighters,” Arn said. “Then do it.”
The hunter nodded and suddenly the spear he had been leaning upon became as light as a feather in his arms. He pranced forward into the space between the two tribes.
Woko feinted a jab, before the onlookers expected, but Taran was already on guard. That set the tone of the fight, with each warrior circling one another, watching where each foot stopped and how each limb moved. Thrusts with no intent to strike sometimes increased the distance between them, but it quickly narrowed again as they rounded once more.
The other tribe started to set a beat, and a growing mantra of hisses and “Woko”s overtook the chirp of birds and the occasional screech of a wild cat in the forest. Arn wondered if the screechers would be drawn by all this commotion.
Then Taran drove forward, his feet thundering on the mossy mud, and his stab more than a taunt. It didn’t connect with flesh; it was knocked to the left instead. Woko swung his spear around from that defence and slashed the air over Taran’s ducking head.
The fighters separated again, to play their game of cat and mouse, a sport to determine which was which.
Another clash interrupted the noisy choir of the Sorca tribe, and this time, Woko received the hard ball of Taran’s foot to his leg, knocking him off balance. Taran’s next slash, at the awkwardly stumbling warrior, grazed his shoulder and cut one line of leather free. The man struck out with the back of his spear, even though he was about to roll into the dirt, and resounded an impact against Taran’s ribs.
Taran stumbled back, coughing, but had plenty of time to reposition his spear and chase Woko’s roll through the mud. It was the other tribe’s line of spears that stopped the charge, and Taran was forced to back off and give Woko a chance to reclaim his feet.
During this time, Taran kept coughing. He grimaced and touched his side gingerly. Then the other warrior came for him again.
Spear arc after spear arc came swinging for Taran’s shirtless flesh, but he lifted his spear like a staff and blocked each. When Woko overstepped once, Taran gave him a slash along the leg. Woko went down on one knee, and Taran, red-faced, rose over him to finish it. His lightning-quick thrust was offset by a desperate block, sending the two tilting toward the ground.
In the midst of it, Woko drove his fist into Taran’s side, where his spear had earlier blunted the warrior’s torso. Taran cried out, and blood splattered from his mouth onto Woko’s face. Coughing and heaving, Taran reeled away.
Arn, white-knuckled, drove his own spear’s butt into that mossy stone. His breath was held, while his champion gasped for air.
Woko’s next slash outpaced Taran’s normal speed, earning him a tiny red line along one shoulder. The next jab was barely parried, and the next sent the choking warrior down onto one knee. Woko spun his spear around, as he turned in a whirlwind—the spear shaft smashed Taran across the brow and the warrior went down into the mud.
The turn brought Woko back to face Arn and the Razaad tribe. Woko looked down his nose at the unconscious warrior who was heaving and twitching in the mud. Arn let out his breath as all eyes turned to him. They had lost the challenge. The chanting and hissing of the Sorca tribe went quiet.
The mossy stone under Arn’s spear exploded out of its green blanket, scattering mud into the air, a little tail for his spear butt as the weapon was lifted into the air, as it surged across the ten or twelve feet between them.
Woko saw it coming, but could only move so quickly. He started to spin away, to swing his own stick through the air and deflect Arn’s, but the thrown weapon gouged deep into his upper arm, then, when Woko’s flailing defence hit the shaft, gouged a large chunk of flesh free. Woko went down, shouting, onto the trampled turf.
“Arn!” It was Jorik’s exclamation that pre-empted the eruption of shouts and barks from the decorated warriors opposite them. The Embalmer had turned back, as though he could somehow stay Arn’s hand, as though the deed wasn’t already done.
Before the noise turned to violence, Arn raised his voice. “Run back to your cliffs and caves,” he belted forth, and yanked the metal sword free from its sheathe. “Run and hide! We are not going anywhere!”
His men advanced with him, like they were the waves of the Deep. The trampled moss was overtaken, as Woko dragged himself up and stumbled toward his people. To Arn’s surprise, they grabbed Woko’s arms to help him, and then they retreated! The old man was picked up by another big warrior; the warrior-women defended their flight with hisses and waving war-sticks. The hunters of Razaad prowled after them, and a few blows were exchanged without injuries.
Soon, the damaged foliage was the only sight of them left to Arn, though some of his warriors had followed further. “Go after them,” Arn called. He grabbed Logern by the shoulder. “See where they hide.”
Jorik fell to his knees next to Taran and gently rolled him onto his back. He lowered his head to Taran’s mouth and tensed when he heard breath. He repositioned Taran’s arm to straighten the man’s torso and proceeded to gently touch each of the warriors ribs to find the broken ones. Arn loomed over the two and pressed his muddied spear over Taran’s heart. Jorik blinked and pulled his hand out of the way. He stared up at Arn in shock as the skin was punctured, as Taran died. Arn didn’t push the spear point too deep—Jorik could still sanctify a punctured heart for the afterlife.
“Why?” the Embalmer asked.
Arn shrugged. “I have no need of disappointments.”