35th of Summer, 508AV
Village of the Shorn Skulls
11th Bell
Village of the Shorn Skulls
11th Bell
"And what do you think gives you this right... boy?"
The last word was like a dagger thrust to the young male kneeling before the War Mistress. Seat next to her, Draksyl's lips spasmed for a moment as he crushed a sneer, but the youth ignored it. Surrounded by the bones and trophies of his family, both parents and his uncle arrayed before him in doubting scrutiny, he wasn't in any position to take anything.
Which was why he was trying to ask.
"My steel pierced the beast." His words were slow and measured, as if he'd rehearsed them (which he had). "My ax on its leg and my gladius through its back. Twas a mortal wound, mother."
"Mortal does not equate to dead in the whirl of battle, boy," Yurta rumbled back, eyes flinty and unforgiving, even and especially to her own son. "Draksyl reports that you were a breath away from her jaws before the rest of the fang saved you. That is what happened, correct?"
Razkar's jaw tightened but he dared not show any more displeasure. Draksyl's lips quirked again; Goddess, what he'd give to beat the enjoyment off that cyclopean visage. But...
"... yes. That is true."
"They saved you. He saved you."
"Yes."
"Then I ask again..." She pointed at the mass of bones in the middle of them. Actually, "mass" is rather an unworthy term. It was a complete tiger skeleton, the bones still raw with ripped off muscle and flesh. Some bones were broken or fractured, but none were missing. Even then, Razkar felt the cruel, contemptuous power of the beast, how close it had come to ending him... how hard she had died. "... why should you, and not Draksyl, had the honor of this prize?"
Razkar had no answer, and all present knew it. His father's face was stony, impenetrable. Yurta's was more animated, but hard, unforgiving. Even if she'd wanted her son to share in the victory, she knew it would have been wrong. Draksyl - casual, contented, silent - knew how this would go. His remaining eye danced and twinkled with triumph and Razkar's fists balled-
"Answer me, boy, or-"
"Am I not worthy? Fighting the beast, surviving where others did not, to earn even-"
She moved fast and without hesitation. Though well into her fifth decade, Yurta had left nothing of her speed and power behind to the march of Tanroa... and she spared nothing, even for her own flesh. Before Zek had even finished his gasp of outrage and Draksyl's lips had fully formed into a growl, she had lunged forward, arm sweeping-
-and the crack of her knuckles against Razkar's cheek knocked him down to the ground in a flurry of pain and flaring red before his eyes.
"Do not interrupt me, boy!" She stood over him like Myri's own wrath, and he couldn't keep the tremble from him as he straightened back up, eyes downcast as she snarled. "Survival? You think that worthy of greater merit that victory?" Again there was a long pause and now she was in no mood to wait. "SPEAK!"
"I... I think-"
Again she lashed out and now the boy yelped with pain and spat blood onto the woven floor. Zek winced but did not speak up; he just cast a quick glance at his one-eyed brother and the sheer, cold anger in his eyes wiped the smirk off his face. The hunting master focused forward, instead... and enjoyed the show.
"You think to steal the honor of one who saved your life." She ground out the words with disgust. "Were you not my blood, I would have you flogged in the square for such a thing... but you are."
She stalked away from him, feet adroitly avoiding the skeleton as she resumed her position, nodding to her brother-in-law.
"The right of the skeleton is yours, Draksyl, for your victory and your skill. I only regret this... pointless diversion had to be played out before that was settled."
"War Mistress, I thank you, and-"
"You may go, male."
Even Razkar looked up that that. The words were simple, even formal, but only a fool would have missed the simmering anger behind them. Draksyl blinked his one beady eye and his mouth froze in mid-word, triumph of the moment soured by the realization that Razkar was slowly coming to.
She resents him for this. She knows she shouldn't, but...
But a mother is still a mother, even a Myrian one. Yurta accepted the hunter's low bow with a curt nod of her own and Zek didn't even give him that. Draksyl walked away with his shoulders square and head high, determined not to be robbed of his victory over the little pup.
If only she knew, he thought with an ugly smirk at Razkar as he passed, that her little male let loose that fishy cunt. Three of our clan dead, and still she coddles him. If he were my lad...
"See to his face," Yurta said lowly to her husband after Draksyl had left, voice a shade softer, and only for the male that had been her constant reassurance for over thirty years, "Then have him deliver your brother's prize."
Zek blinked; the closest a male could come to questioning her. But for him, there was no slap or snarl, nor fury. Yurta just sighed and shook her head.
"The boy has to learn."
"... yes... my love. He must. And he will."
Razkar looked down as his mother marched past him, but he felt her pace slow, just for a moment. He did not look up, and then she was gone.
