When the chief had stepped back, Garza looked at Imogen. “What’s samu?”
“It means ‘son.’”
“You told him I accepted?”
“Of course. Would you rather I told him you refused—and get our heads impaled on those stakes for sure?”
Garza hesitated. “I guess not.”
“Then just remember it’s for a good cause—our survival. Now keep smiling!”
Then, just as the chief seemed about to launch into another speech, there was a hubbub in the gathering below. Garza, his vision still a little blurry, blinked downward. He could just make out Mugdol—Blackbeard—pushing his way through the crowd until he was standing alone before them. An incensed look on his face, he made a fist; pounded it twice against his chest; and then—with a few angry words—pointed it at Garza. There was another gasp from the crowd.
As with one voice, the chief and Lillaya spoke to Blackbeard. There was a brief, heated exchange. Then, almost reluctantly, the old man nodded. He turned to Garza, spread his hands, and spoke several sentences. Garza gestured to show that he did not understand. Then Lillaya came forward and conferred at some length with Imogen.
“Well?” Garza asked as she turned toward him. The crowd, too, was still looking up, great anticipation on their faces.
“There’s, um, there’s a problem.” A grave look was on her face.
“I won’t marry her. Then there’s no problem.”
She waved this away. “Because you saved his daughter’s life, you deserve to have her hand in marriage. But our friend down there—” she gestured toward Mugdol, who was now standing, arms folded, legs apart, glaring up at them—“protests that, as the lead warrior of the tribe, she is already promised to him.”
“Fine. Let them get married.”
“It’s not that simple. The chief has already given his consent to your marriage. And according to custom, there is only one way to settle this.”
Garza’s headache suddenly grew worse. “I don’t think I want to know what it is.”
Imogen paused a moment before continuing. “You’ve been challenged to a fight—a fight to the death.”
Garza simply groaned.
Several of the tribal elders came forward, and now there was a brief conclave between them and the chief. At length, the chief spoke to the crone, who in turn spoke to the three.
“It seems there’s no way out,” Imogen said. “You can’t refuse the chief’s invitation, and you can’t refuse the fight. The chief has allowed you two days to recover. Whoever survives the combat will marry his daughter in one week—just as he already decreed.”
“Great.” Garza grasped hold of Gideon as dizziness returned. “If this is what the engagement is like, I can’t wait for the honeymoon.”
32
FOR GIDEON, THE next two days and nights passed in a kind of nightmarish blur. He saw little of Garza, who spent most of his time in their tent, resting and—Gideon assumed—mentally preparing himself for the ordeal to come. He was clearly not in the mood for conversation and had barely said a word to either Gideon or Imogen.
Gideon felt an odd, desperate hopelessness. The way the villagers and even the chief acted—going about their business as usual, treating the three newcomers as if nothing had changed, as if his friend wasn’t about to live or die in combat—was unnerving. He’d racked his brain for a way out but had come up with nothing: they had yet to put together a detailed plan of escape, and he could not challenge the chief’s edict without all three of them putting their lives at risk. At his urging, Imogen had approached the crone, asking as diplomatically as she could if there wasn’t some other way this could be resolved, but the answer was ironclad: it was ritual, it was custom. Nothing could be done.
And so it was early on the morning of the third day that Gideon, along with Imogen and the silent Garza, stepped out of their tent to find the four white-bearded priests standing there, waiting for them. Behind the priests stood several guards. The priests began leading the way toward the far end of the valley, and the three followed. The guards swung into place behind and, over his shoulder, Gideon could see the rest of the tribe following. The guards were all armed with spears, their faces expressionless. The culture shock was almost beyond Gideon’s ability to parse: despite all they’d accomplished—in particular, despite Garza’s improving work efficiency dramatically and saving the chief’s daughter—it almost felt like the very first day again, when they’d been led to the pit of headless bodies. Ironically, this time around nobody except Blackbeard and a few of his henchmen bore them any ill wilclass="underline" Garza’s fate was simply out of their hands and into those of the gods.
The priests led the long procession along a winding path, through the Home of the Dead, and then in a direction Gideon had not gone before. After marching perhaps another quarter mile, they made their way through a slot canyon into a bowl-like depression, surrounded on all sides by rock. Gideon looked around. The spot looked more like a small gladiatorial arena than anything else. The stony floor was littered with animal corpses in various stages of decay. There were human remains, as well, lying scattered here and there among the litter of boulders and sharp stones. Gideon didn’t need a translation to understand the nature of this place—he could guess for himself. It was a place of combat; a place for the settling of differences—and, perhaps, for savage amusements as well.
The tribespeople fanned out around the circular edge of the bowl, their faces shining with anticipation. Gideon and Imogen were led to a rickety canopy, built of poles topped with sticks that were in turn overlain with palm leaves. It was apparently a place of honor, next to the chief, his daughter Jelena, the crone, and the four priests. The men with spears now took up positions on both sides of the structure, like an honor guard. The rest of the onlookers stood in the bright morning sun.
Garza and Mugdol were escorted to the center of the arena by two warriors. The crone Lillaya stepped forward and began another wailing chant, which echoed off the surrounding peaks. After several minutes, the chanting stopped and the chief himself stepped forward. Speaking in a raspy voice, he went on for what seemed to Gideon like ages, gesturing at both Garza and Mugdol in turn. At last, clearly exhausted by his speech, the chief returned to the makeshift canopy. Blackbeard removed his robe, exposing a bronzed physique. The crowd cheered as he strode around, flexing his muscles, primarily it seemed for Jelena’s benefit. The two warriors gestured at Garza and he reluctantly removed his own robes, exposing a pale torso. Gideon’s heart sank. Garza was pretty damn fit, well muscled and tough, but next to Blackbeard—a six-foot-six ripped monster at least a dozen years younger—the contrast was still extreme.
The combatants removed their headcloths and they were placed to one side, along with their robes. A silence fell and the audience parted as four more warriors came through, carrying a pallet on which were laid out an array of weapons. Gideon squinted. He could see variously shaped spears, bronze daggers, and even a few stone blades and hatchets, along with an open wooden box holding the giant, technologically advanced steel blade Mugdol had wielded earlier. Clearly the tribe had not fashioned it, Gideon reflected; it must have been taken off the dead body of some luckless trespasser. Blackbeard immediately seized the sword, eliciting a roar from the crowd as he again paraded around, swishing the sword through the air in various fancy moves.
Garza stared at the rather pathetic arrangement of remaining weapons. He scowled.
“This is unfair,” he said loudly. “None of these weapons are equal to that sword!”
Lillaya the crone acted again as translator. “The Father say you must choose one.”