One step to the side, and Hweilan placed herself between the youth and Mandan. Ruuket wailed and Buureg screamed to his archers, “Hold! Hold! Do not loose!”
Snarling, the youth brought the blade around in a clumsy swipe. He was strong, and his fury made him stronger still, but clumsy. Hweilan caught the wrist but did not stop it, instead continuing through, directing the force, using his own strength against him and adding her own to twist the arm, turning him in the direction she wanted him to go. She ducked, planted her shoulder in his gut as he fell over her, then threw him.
The youth hit the ground, knife still in hand, but when he started to push himself to his feet, a growl stopped him. He looked up through his tears to see Uncle’s bared teeth less than three inches from his nose.
“Stop! Stop this-now!”
A moment of absolute silence fell. All eyes turned to the one who had called out. Mandan had fallen forward out of the stone hand onto his hands and knees, but he was pushing himself to his feet now, the remnants of bloody leather cord still dangling from his wrists. The Damaran stood to his full height, though he was swaying like a tree in summer wind. He looked down at the youth.
“Come here,” Mandan told him.
The young hobgoblin cast a quick glance at Mandan, then looked back at the wolf.
“Uncle,” she said, “Chu set. Alet.”
The wolf snapped his jaws once, then walked away to stand beside Hweilan.
“Aniq,” she told him. “Be ready.”
“On your feet, boy,” said Mandan.
The youth scrambled to his feet, a little bit of the anger coming back to him. “I have a knife,” he said.
Mandan said, “Bring it.”
The youth stood and gave Hweilan and the wolf a wary glance. Hweilan returned it, then kept her eyes flicking back and forth between Mandan and the hobgoblins.
Holding the knife in front of him, the youth approached Mandan. The blade was shaking, and Hweilan saw that the boy was clenching his jaw shut to keep it from trembling as well. But she could also see that it was taking all the strength Mandan had just to stay upright.
“You know”-Mandan’s voice caught, and he swallowed hard-“how to use that?”
The youth scowled, and Hweilan realized he probably didn’t speak Damaran. She translated for him. He glared at her, then spit on Mandan and replied.
“He says, ‘Enough to kill you,’ ” Hweilan told Mandan.
The Damaran wiped the spittle from his face, then fell back onto the palm of the stone. He had to reach out and catch himself on the thumb to keep from falling.
“I will not … stop you,” said Mandan, then looked to Hweilan. “Tell him.”
“No.”
Buureg translated for him, earning a glare from Hweilan. But then the warchief ordered one of his warriors to take Mandan some water. The warrior balked and opened his mouth to protest.
“Do it!” said Buureg.
The warrior sheathed his sword, then walked forward warily. He took a small skin from his belt, untied it, and handed it to Mandan. The Damaran took a careful drink, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed it out. He tried again, managed to swallow, then took a long drink.
Mandan handed the skin back to the warrior, then looked at the boy, his one good eye glaring. “I killed your father.”
Buureg translated his words.
Mandan slapped at the youth’s knife, feebly but enough to make a point. “So you will kill me. What then?”
Buureg opened his mouth, but Hweilan beat him to it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could see where this might be going.
The youth looked to Buureg, obviously not trusting Hweilan’s words. The warchief nodded. “She spoke true.”
“Then,” said the youth in his own tongue, “I will be a warrior this summer. I will raid. I will hunt. I will provide for my mother, my brothers, and my sister. Urlun, son of Duur! I swear it!”
Several of the warriors hooted their encouragement.
“You?” said Mandan, Hweilan translating. “You’ve never hunted as a warrior. Never raided. You think you will be able to feed the four of them through the winter? Winter is hard, boy. And you’re soft.”
The youth growled and raised the knife. Hweilan took a step forward, but Mandan’s words stopped them both.
“Is it true what I have heard?” Mandan looked past the youth to Buureg.
“What?” said the warchief.
“I have heard,” said Mandan, Hweilan still translating for the youth, “that if Urlun cannot provide for them, then Ruuket’s only hope is to take up a spear herself or find another mate. If she hunts and raids, her children will be left alone. If she takes another mate, he can choose whether or not to provide for her children. If he chooses not, the children are cast out to fend for themselves. Is this true?”
The look on Urlun’s face told Hweilan everything she needed to know before Buureg answered, “It is true. It is our way.”
Mandan said, “It is not my way.”
He forced himself to stand. Urlun flinched but did not back away-or lower the knife.
“Hold that blade steady, boy,” said Mandan. Hweilan let Buureg translate this, hoping the warchief’s words would hold more weight.
“My life is yours,” Mandan told Urlun. “Yours and your family’s. Take it. Or hold it. If you hold it, I swear I will spend my days taking care of your family.”
That stunned Ruuket and her family to silence, but some of the warriors cried out in protest.
“Silence!” said Buureg.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Urlun asked Mandan.
Mandan gave the youth’s knife hand another feeble slap. “You have courage, Urlun. But you hold that blade like a boy. I can teach you to do otherwise. I will teach you to do otherwise-and more. If you let me.”
Urlun’s jaw flapped twice. He licked his lips and looked to his mother. But she could only stare.
“And them?” Urlun asked.
“I will see that your family is taken care of.”
Urlun snorted. “You? You’re down to your loincloth.”
Several of the warriors laughed at that.
“I am a duke’s son,” said Mandan. “I will bargain with your people to care for them now. When my duty here is done, you can come to my home with me, where I will treat you with all honor. I will send tribute once a year to your family, until your brothers and sister are grown or until your mother finds another to care for them.”
“Ha!” one of the spear holders said. “We are Razor Heart! No one will take your word.”
Buureg punched the speaker in the face, and the warrior went down in a clatter of armor. “I will take it,” said the warchief. “If Hweilan, Hand of the Hunter, takes it with me. If she will hold the duke’s son to his word, I swear to care for your family myself, Urlun. The Damaran can repay me.”
Hweilan had to admire Buureg’s play. He had just indebted a wealthy Damaran house to himself-and established a potential alliance. She could see how he had attained his status as warchief. She nodded her assent to his plan.
All eyes focused on Urlun. The youth looked from Buureg to Mandan to Hweilan before turning his gaze to Ruuket. “Mother?”
She nodded.
Urlun looked back to Mandan.
“Well?” said Mandan.
“You swear?”
Mandan surged to his feet, chains rattling. Urlun took a step back and all the warriors tensed.
“I told you to hold that blade steady,” said Mandan, and in one quick movement he grabbed the blade in his right hand. But he didn’t yank it from the boy’s grasp. Instead, he squeezed and slid his hand down the steel, opening a deep gash in his palm. He held the fist up, dark blood pouring down his arm.
“I killed your father, Urlun,” said Mandan. “I fought to defend myself, but I killed him in my rage. And though it felt good to do it, I left you fatherless. That is my sin. Torm sees me. May his strong right hand grant me the strength to redeem myself. I will teach you all I know. I will care for your family. I swear it.”