Two nights previously, Razkar was closer to death than he had ever been. It was... exhilarating.
Myri had long since decreed that war between her myriad of clans across Falyndar was outlawed, forbidden and even heretical. She was, of course, obeyed, but in a culture as hot-tempered as Myrians', disputes and slights were inevitable. Resources were hardly scarce but so was patience for insult. Myrians had none, in fact.
So when two hunting parties had found themselves in the same territory, words had been exchanged. First requests, grudging but fairly polite. When they did not work, threats followed. Then drawn swords and axes and-
-and then Taloba had stepped in. War was an impossibility, regardless of the reasons. The Myrians no longer exterminated each other like the barbarians from beyond the jungle. They were all children of the Goddess-Queen, and she would not stand by and let her sons and daughters slaughter each other. But, the insult stood, and would fester...
So, Taloba had said, it would be trial by champion. One from the Shorn Skulls, and one from the Red Moons.
Elanosa was chosen from the latter.
Razkar from the former.
"Are you ready, my son?"
Razkar just nodded. It was all he could do: his mouth had stopped working. His mother stood at his side at the edge of the clearing, miles away from their village and roughly halfway between it and that of the Red Moons. His father and siblings were there, too, along with several elders. They lined one half of the clearing... and slowly, figure by figure... the Red Moons appeared...
Including their champion.
A female about his age, tattooed and scarred, eyes hard and piercing as a hawk's. Razkar saw the intricate, red and blue painting on her arms, depicting Dira with glaives in her hands. Elanosa. He had heard stories about her. All of them were bad.
But he could not fail. Not with his clan watching and fighting alongside him.
That was the worst part of it. He was not afraid to die, at least not broadly speaking. But to fail? To cost his clan valuable, even crucial hunting rights? To snatch the food from infants' mouths and doom perhaps even his own kin to starvation and shame because he was not the male they needed him to be?
He was not afraid of that; he was terrified of it.
"We know why we are here." Yurta said, stepping into the clearing as the matriarch from the Red Moons did the same. "Our champions will duel. It will be to the death. The victor's tribe will have rights to the territory disputed, now and forever. Is that not so?"
Responding as if the words had been rehearsed (which they almost had been), the Red Moons matriarch nodded sharply.
"It is. Come forth, Elanosa."
The Red Moons champion did as she was told, mace in her hand, curved scimitar in her belt. She stopped behind... was it her mother? Perhaps. Razkar did not know. It didn't matter, anyway.
Yurta half-turned her head and spoke: "Come forth, Razkar."
She watched her son step into the clearing and that familiar, shameful pang of parental horror clawed its way up from her guts. He was her son, and a strong male. He had been trained well, sparred daily, and he had been on skirmishes and hunts before with his clan. But a duel such as this, against a veteran warrior... he had not been tested that much before.
Yurta kept her face stoic and proud. She would trust to the Goddess, and to the lessons she had drilled into her son. He stopped next to her, gladius in hand, ax at his belt, and she let a hand fall on his shoulder.
Will I ever touch him again as he breaths, she though suddenly, panic born in her breast. But she squared her jaw and nodded, eyes as flinty as rock and just as cold.
"When the matriarch and I leave the clearing... begin."
"Yes, mother."
"Good luck, my son."
Razkar nodded again, jaw so tight he could had taken a punch from an Isurian. His hadn gripped and re-gripped his gladius, eyes focused on Elanosa. No time to back out now, or run, or make excuses. He'd rather open his throat than do that anyway. Under the half-light of the canopy, the two of them were the only ones in the whole world. Just them, and their weapons.
He felt, rather than heard, the two older females leave. Within a moment, it was just the two of them. He nodded slowly, extending his respect.
Elanosa just snorted and raised her weapon.
Fine, Razkar thought, be that way.
They circled like feuding tigers on the trampled grass, watching for form and openings. Her mace was one-handed, topped with a blunted Tskanna tusk, smooth and hard as metal. It swayed slowly as she held it, a minor distraction but not as diverting as she probably hoped. Finally Razkar jerked forwards, gladius swinging-
-only for her to sway to her right, gladius whipping past her, mace swinging up for him instead-
-Razkar jerked his upper body backwards, mace barely missing his face, stumbling.
Elanosa cracked an evil smile and he felt his blood boil, humiliation making his face burn. She closed the gap quickly, confidently, swinging wildly with the mace, too easy for him to block with his gladius-
-the left hook caught Razkar in the jaw.
But even as he tumbledbackwards, he felt that indignant, raging fury overtake him. He knew it well. Yurta had hammered it into him ceaselessly since he could hold a sword. Don't fall apart. Don't succumb to your fear, or be numbed by your pain. Accept it... and direct it outwards.
Wreak your vengeance.
Her mace swung again and he ducked under it, knees bent as her sword sailed over his head, thrusting his own gladius towards her guts. She jerked to one side, turning away from it-
-but not fast enough.
Elanosa grunted as the razor edge of the gladius carved a red stripe in her stomach, making her step back, blood seeping from the wound. Jaw throbbing, Razkar straightened back up and charged forwards, gladius raised, intending to end this now-
-only for the female to sidestep and slam that mace into his stomach.
Air fled from Razkar's lungs in one great exodus, emptying his body and cracking something on the way out. He didn't know how he managed to keep a grip on his blade, but he did, even as he doubled over and collapsed to the ground. But that shadow towered over him like Dira herself, snarling in fury as she raised that mace again.
Razkar rolled. Fast.
The mace hit the ground where he had been and the woman kicked out, but Razkar's roll didn't end there. Panting and coughing and trying to force air back into his lungs, he managed to get up to one knee before the snarling wo man stomped over to him, mace raised-
-he jerked the gladius up desperately, both hands holding the hilt-
-the two weapons met in an impact that knocked Razkar flat on his back-
-and broke his gladius.
For a long moment he just stared at the splinted and smashed hilt in his hand, the blade laying next to him. His mother had given him that. His first blade. Passed down and down through their family... and now...
His enemy snorted in disgust and raised the mace over her head. A fierce grin spread on his tattooed face-
Razkar roared and grabbed the hilt-less blade, jerking his body forwards and jamming it into the side of Elanosa's leg.
Elanosa screamed in pain as tendons were sliced and muscle pierced, mace falling from her hand as they jerked down in reflex to the wound. Face contorted with unimaginable hatred, he twisted the blade sadistically.
"Petching bastard!"
She kicked out with her other foot and caught him around the face, sending him rolling. Panting, sweating, desperate but adrenaline keeping him alive, Razakr got to his knees. The gladius was ruined, so he drew his ax instead, getting to shaky feet.
His stomach was on fire. Something was broken... probably a rib. Surely she must be tired now, wounded and hamstrung...
She merely barked a laugh and gestured for him to come forth with her left hand, newly-drawn scimitar in her right. Razkar closed the distance quickly, furious, breathing hard... but still... cold. Deep, deep inside him, he judged her height, her reach, her composure, and it all added up to an uneven fight.
But young men do not always think ahead, and he flew at her with a howl of rage.
