“If they attack me, I won't have you fighting with me. The war between their people and mine is not your concern.”
Ngangata shot him a scathing, raw look. “You may have forgotten this, Cattle-Man, but though I have no kin or clan amongst your people, it was still there that I was raised, and it was to your king that I swore my allegiance. Your people never gave me much, but what I got you will not take from me.”
Perkar stared for a moment, then nodded, blushing. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Feel free to die with me, then.”
“Thank you.”
It was almost as if that agreement were a signal for a handful of riders to rush up to them, shrieking. Perkar snarled and snatched for Harka.
“They are not attacking Harka said. “Not yet. Keep me ready. ”
Perkar eased his breath out then, and the riders parted around him, shouting, brandishing axes and thick curved swords. Perkar knew none of these, but like the riders at the stream, they had their war plumes on. Each wore a Human skin as a cloak, the empty arms and hands flapping like the wings of spirits.
He and Ngangata sat their horses as the riders circled them, enduring the Mang curses. At last, one of them parted out and brought his stallion stamping and gasping to relative stillness. He was a young man, thickly muscular.
“You!” he shouted at Perkar. “Cattle-Man. We will fight.”
Perkar avoided the man's eyes: meeting them squarely was considered an affront by the Mang. Instead he gazed up at the sky, as if wondering where the clouds were. “I have no wish to fight you, man,” he replied.
“We are here on the invitation of Brother Horse,” Ngangata added. “We are not here to fight.”
“I am not speaking to you, Brush-Man,” the warrior said. “And I do not care whose protection you are under.”
“It's true,” Perkar heard someone say. “They were hunting with us in the high country.” A few others echoed the sentiment.
“Hunting in the high country. Is that where he got my cousin, there?” He jabbed his thick fingers toward Sharp Tiger, and Perkar realized that if things could get worse, they had. They were Mang. Of course they would recognize the horse and wonder where its rider was.
Perkar was spared having to answer when a second man rode up beside the first. He was quite young, and his eyes were a peculiar color for a Mang—almost green. “Be still, Chuuzek. Brother Horse told us of these two.”
“Someone get Brother Horse,” someone else called from the side. “Bring him here quickly!” Perkar did not turn to see who it was, but thought he recognized Huu'leg, with whom he had hunted and shared beer.
“As I said,” Perkar repeated, “I have no desire to fight.”
The man who had been called Chuuzek glared at him. The crowd seemed split on the matter of their fighting; Perkar could hear many urging Chuuzek on, but others were as loudly proclaiming that such a breach of hospitality could not be tolerated. “What is your quarrel with me?”
“You are the pale man and the Brush-Man. You began this war,” Chuuzek proclaimed loudly, matter-of-factly.
Perkar could only stare, openmouthed. It was Ngangata who answered the charge. “Who told you this?”
“The gaan. The prophetG
And at that, there was silence for a moment, before Brother Horse's voice rose up.
“Well, my nephews are back!” he said dryly, not loudly at all. But in the quiet after Chuuzek's assertion he was more than audible.
“A Mang's nephews are Mang” Chuuzek spat.
“Well, so they are,” Brother Horse agreed. “And so they are—in this camp, at this moment.” The old man pushed through the crowd, two younger clansmen trailing closely. He glared up at Chuuzek. “Mang know how to behave properly in a relative's camp.”
“Yes,” the green-eyed boy assented. “Yes, they do.”
Chuuzek, whose face had been set in a fierce scowl, suddenly grinned broadly. He turned to Brother Horse. “You misunderstand, Shutsebe. This is the time of the Ben'cheen, of feasting and games. I was only asking your nephew if he wanted to go at the bech'iinesh.”
“He does not” Brother Horse snapped.
Perkar pursed his lips, trying desperately to place the word. He had heard it before, and it meant something like “flat” … No. It meant “they slap.” It was a game, and a rough one.
Chuuzek shrugged off Brother Horse's pronouncement.
“He can tell me himself,” Chuuzek said, “if he is too small and soft for a Mang pastime.”
“Well,” Perkar said softly, “I have no wish to fight you. But if it is only a game you wish to play …”
Brother Horse was frowning and shaking his head no, and the lift in Ngangata's brow also told him that he was agreeing to a bad thing. But if he did not do something, he would not know peace long enough even to get Hezhi. And if he did, there was nothing to stop a party of these men from following him from the village and attacking him in the open desert, away from Brother Horse and his hospitality. No, it was time for him to do something. And Chuuzek was looking at him expectantly.
He had five hundred leagues of Mang territory to ride through to reach his home. Best get this over with—or at least begin it—now.
“Of course. I accept your invitation,” he said, and the crowd burst into a hoarse cheer. Chuuzek bared his teeth in satisfaction.
“Fine,” Brother Horse said. “But let my nephew get a bite to eat, something to drink. There is plenty enough time for Slapping today.”
“No,” Perkar said. “No, I feel well enough to play now.” As he said this, he stared fully into Chuuzek's eyes and saw the malicious light there.
Brother Horse sighed. “Perkar has no paddle. I will loan him mine.” He turned and strode off.
For an instant, no one spoke, but then the crowd surged around them, and it almost seemed as if they lifted up Perkar and his mount and carried them to the track around the camp. Still shouting, they parted about the hoof-beaten path and lined the sides of it. Perkar wasn't certain, but many of them seemed to be taking bets.
Presently Brother Horse returned, bearing a wooden paddle as long as a man's arm and a hand's breadth wide. It looked to be hardwood wrapped with leather over some sort of padding. Brother Horse handed it up to him, and he took the felt-wrapped grip. It weighed almost as much as a sword.
Chuuzek was nowhere in sight.
“What do I do?” Perkar asked.
Brother Horse shook his head. “Tell me what you want buried with you. Chuuzek is going to kill you.”
Perkar smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes. What do I doT
The old man pointed around the track. “He's around on the other side of the village. In a moment, someone will blow a horn. You ride toward each other. You hit each other with the paddles.”
“How is the winner known?”
Brother Horse spit. “Oh, you'll know,” he said. “You just keep going until someone can't or won't. My advice to you is to fall off right away. Very dishonorable, but then again, it will give Chuuzek only one chance to break your neck.”
“Can I parry his paddle?”
“You can do whatever you want. It won't matter.”
“You've never seen me fight.”
Brother Horse laid a hand on his leg and looked up frankly. “You bear a godsword; I know that. No doubt with it in your hands you are a great warrior. But today you are just a man on a horse with a wooden paddle, facing a Mang who was in the saddle nine months before he was born.”