The Hunter (20 page)

“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 more 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 fatal 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.

Once again they began to circle, only this time Braldt was careful to keep a greater distance between himself and his opponent.
If Batta Flor attempted such a move again, he would be forced to cross a greater distance, thus signaling his intent and allowing
Braldt a slight advantage. They continued to circle, each wary of the other, allowing the other no edge, until the audience
grew weary at the lack of action and began to hiss, signaling their discontent.

It was Braldt who made the first move. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he hurled himself into the air, exposing the entire
length of his torso for one very long moment until he touched the ground with his hands and pushed off, springing into the
air once again before the astonished Batta Flor could react, his body arcing over to land on his feet behind his opponent.

The audience was silent, dumbfounded, staring at him with wide eyes for they had never seen such a display of gymnastics that
was but one of the skills all would-be Duroni warriors were taught early on in their training for it was said to quicken the
mind and coordinate the body. As well as surprise the enemy.

Before Batta Flor could react, Braldt slipped in close behind him and brought his hands up in front of the Madrelli’s arms
and linked his hands behind the creature’s neck, exerting a steady downward pressure. This was a time-honored hold, one that
was all but certain to win contests in Duroni arenas, but Braldt was not dealing with one of his own kind. Locked in such
a hold, one had but to flex the hands to snap the neck of one’s opponent as well as dislocating the shoulders from their sockets.

But Braldt had badly misjudged the musculature and body structure of the Madrelli. The deadly hold did not even faze Batta
for who turned his head to look at Braldt as though wondering if he had lost his mind. Then, with one
casual shrug of his shoulders, he began to slip from Braldt’s grasp.