by Dave Duncan
He spent most his time planning his escape, but every idea he could think of was either impossible or was at once made so, almost as if the goblins could read his thoughts. Darad had taken Rap's mukluks. High Raven had confiscated Andor's and kept them in clear view beside his sleeping place, so footwear would have to wait for last. Rap had to make a long search with farsight before he located his parka and fur trousers, only to learn that they had been disassembled and stitched together as a rug, again for the chief's personal glory.
That news was terrifying, as if a captive in a dungeon had learned that the key to his cell had been melted down. It threw a depression over him such as he had never known. His nightly prowls had shown him that buckskins were much inferior to furs. Within minutes his teeth would be chattering. He was no goblin, able to survive in the forest without furs. He was imprisoned by invisible bars of pure cold.
Dancer and Crazy had been placed in the stable with the goblins' stock, and he could see no problem in stealing them when he was ready to make a break—until the fifth day, when two men saddled them up and rode them away. They did not return. Rap, therefore, would be forced to steal one of the stunted goblin ponies and would not have the advantage of a better mount in the inevitable chase.
He had abandoned his early idea that half the men were away on a raiding party. There were no other men. Darad had explained what happened to half the adolescent males in the tribe, and Rap had reluctantly come to believe that Little Chicken's grisly jokes were not mere sadistic humor—they were real plans. The loser would be dismembered by the winner.
Unfortunately, his escape was going to be certain suicide. With the aid of his farsight he could likely steal the mukluks and a pony of sorts, but not the clothes he needed. He would freeze to death in buckskins, unless he was recaptured first. Nevertheless, freezing seemed like a more enjoyable death than the procedures Little Chicken kept devising, so to the forest he must go.
He left it too late. A wicked wind sprang up at sunset on the day he had planned for his departure, and he glumly decided to wait for the next night, although that would be his last chance before the testing. And either Little Chicken had been lying, or had made a mistake, or else Rap had miscounted, but he awoke to find the boys excitedly dressing themselves in their buckskins, which he had not seen them do before. He could detect frantic activity in the women's hut and the married quarters, and soon he saw other goblins streaming in from all points of the compass, bringing their womenfolk and their children along on horseback to watch the fun. Obviously this was the day of the testing.
He still did not know what was expected of him, except to die bravely.
And slowly, of course.
2
The wan polar day gleamed hesitantly through a white ice fog, a mere watery glow on the southern horizon, casting no shadows, and barely brighter than good moonlight. Wind was lifting wisps of snow and trailing them along the ground. The feasting had been going on in the main hut for several hours and the only persons not included were Rap, Little Chicken, and some of the most ancient women, who arrived at the boys' cabin with bags of equipment to prepare the contestants. They began by sitting them on stools and smearing them both with bear grease. They dressed Little Chicken's hair in the usual slimy rope, but Rap's tangled mop frustrated them . . . He did not recognize any of them as the woman he had seen in the night.
The crones toiled in silence, ignoring Rap's questions, but Little Chicken chattered in great spirits. He sat on his stool as the women worked on him, gloating at Rap and rehearsing all the vilest torments he could think of.
“You make good show, Flat Nose!” he begged. “You die long!”
All Rap could do was try his clucking noise, and today even that failed to ruffle Little Chicken. “Death Bird!” he insisted, and grinned happily.
Oh, Gods!
Rap reeled back on his stool, choking down a cry of despair. He is precious? Even if his hunger had made him hallucinate a vision of a goblin sorceress, how could it have put that name on its lips? Had the apparition been real, after all? Was he doomed to fight a champion guarded by sorcery?
Then he remembered that Little Chicken had mentioned his new name earlier, the first time they had spoken. Rap had forgotten it, that was all. So this was merely another instance of Rap's mind playing tricks on him. There had been no old woman. Obviously she had been nothing but a figment of his tormented brain.
And Rap had evidently concealed his momentary horror, because Little Chicken had not noticed it. “Clover Scent!” he added, and sighed with pleasure.
Any change of subject was welcome. “Clover Scent?” Rap asked shakily.
“Also today I marry Clover Scent! I give her bits of you for wedding present.”
Rap did not ask which bits, and the prospect put his companion back on his grisly litany again. Rap scanned with farsight and detected a very young girl being groomed in the single women's hut.
But now the contestants were almost ready. The old hags produced thick fur mitts for them; then fur shoes of a type Rap had not seen before. They seemed impractical garments, cut low on the ankle, useless in snow, but they were enough to tell him what the testing would involve and why he, a nongoblin, was preferred to the smaller Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down.
Little Chicken watched him work it out and grinned.
The mitts and shoes would be worn to prevent fingers and toes falling off, and soon earmuffs appeared as well. But there would be no other garments except the usual loincloths.
A strong stud makes a strong foal—Rap had heard that at least once a day from old Honinin for years. Darad had said the goblins weeded out their weaklings, and obviously they bred their men to be resistant to cold.
“Very cold day, Flat Nose. Bad wind.”
The feasting ended; the villagers and their guests came streaming out into the fading twilight and the bad wind. It was a very bad wind, swirling the snow around the compound and streaming the smoke from the chimneys. The cold was so intense that the snow creaked underfoot. Even the goblins did not like it, and the children had been wrapped in furs as well as their usual buckskins. The spectators huddled together, more in bunches than in an even circle, waiting to view the contest. They stamped their feet and grumbled, and their breath was whipped away in quick white clouds.
In the center of the circle lay a tree trunk, and the sight of it gave Rap the last clue he needed as he was led forward, swathed in a thick fur cape. Even with that, he was shivering. The wind stung his bare ankles with gritty snow and bit his face. It was hard to breathe in such cold; his eyes watered, his nose streamed, and the mucus froze on his stubble. He cringed at the knowledge that he was surely going to be stripped of the cape very shortly and he wondered whether the resulting torture of the wind could be very much less than what Little Chicken would do to him afterward.
Yes, it could. His best strategy was to hang on as long as possible and hope to freeze to death.
“Just hold your end up,” Darad had said.
Little Chicken marched to one end of the tree trunk; Rap was directed to the other—the thicker, heavier end, of course. Four men advanced to lift the log, and Rap wondered whether he would be able to support the load at all, even without the cold to worry about. He looked down the horrible length of it—rough bark and nasty stubs of branches sticking out at intervals. The men stooped and heaved, and up it came, caked still with snow on its underside.
Then his cape was snatched away and the sudden impact of the air on his skin was worse than being plunged into ice water. He gasped with the pain of it and saw Little Chicken enjoying his reaction. At once he was pushed forward, under the end of the tree trunk, and the men lowered it. Sharp, hard bark bit into his shoulder, the weight almost buckled his knees, and he scrabbled for a grip with his fur mitts.
Little Chicken took hold of a convenient stub of branch. There was no such handhold at Rap's end, so he had less leverage to work with—High Raven had missed no bets at all. The goblin grip
ped firmly and stepped back, pulling.
Rap had not been prepared to do anything but take the weight. The sudden jerk almost pulled the log off his shoulder. He stumbled forward and started to fold under that monstrous load, then straightened up with a huge effort, ripping skin from his shoulder in the process. Little Chicken grinned happily and pushed; Rap staggered backward, and again almost fell. The spectators cheered and shouted ribald comments.
Obviously anything went in this game, but after those two playful attempts Little Chicken gave up his efforts to dislodge Rap's grip—he would spoil the fun if he succeeded. He spread his feet, steadied the log with one hand, and put the other on his hip in a show of bravado. Then he just stood and smiled, waiting for the cold to do its work.
The spectators were silent now, hunching their shoulders against the wind, stamping their feet in the snow, waiting also. Small children fretted. Dogs sniffed curiously around the visitors' ankles. Wraiths of snow circled across the compound and the chimney smoke hurried away.
They would not have to wait long. Rap could feel the life draining out of him. It could only be a few minutes before his body temperature fell to the point at which he would faint. Or else he would simply drop the log, for his muscles were leaping in uncontrollable spasms, his legs trembling violently; he could hardly stop his knees from buckling. His teeth were rattling, his skin turning white. Soon he would be as pale as a jotunn. He tried a quick heave on the log and it was immovable. Little Chicken did not even have to raise his spare hand to steady it, nor move his feet, His grin was growing wider and wider as he watched Rap weaken. Another couple of minutes ought to do it.
Rap recalled his vision of the old woman warning him not to harm Little Chicken, and thought that ought to be funny, somehow.
What use was a word of power here? What use stubbornness? What use was Rap going to be to Inos, who would be robbed of her throne because he had failed in his attempt to warn her? Why did his talent have to be farsight, instead of physical strength or stamina, or Andor's irresistible guile? Only farsight and a knack for horses . . .
Or dogs! Rap uttered a silent scream. He felt Fleabag's equally silent bristle of alarm from somewhere in the crowd.
Either the light was fading much faster than usual or Rap was on the point of fainting, for dark waves were surging across the compound. Little Chicken had raised his free hand back to the log, so he was probably about to try another push, or a pull, and that would be the end—Rap was barely able to keep upright standing still. The slightest jerk would fell him.
Fleabag! Help!
Just for devilment, Little Chicken gave the trunk a quick twist. The bark scraped on Rap's shoulder. He was too numb to feel much pain, but also too numb to react properly, and the log almost rolled off. He recovered and sent a desperate appeal to Fleabag, a picture, directions . . .
The waves of blackness were coming faster, making rushing sounds like water on the shingle at Krasnegar. The compound rose and fell, flickering now. The end was very close. Little Chicken could tell. He began rocking the log to and fro gently, amusing both himself and the audience by watching how Rap tilted to and fro beneath it, his legs locked, his eyes barely open, his breath coming in short gasps. The swings began to grow larger, to and fro . . . Which way would Rap fall?
Fleabag!
A dog as large as a full-grown timber wolf came racing across the compound at full wolf speed, heading for Rap. As it passed Little Chicken it veered unexpectedly, careering into the backs of his knees. Dog and boy and log collapsed in a heap.
Rap staggered wildly, but he had managed to hold up his end of the tree for an instant longer than Little Chicken had. The other end had fallen first. Then he toppled into the fur robe that was thrown around him. Waiting hands snatched him up and rushed him to the lodge for treatment. Fleabag slunk away, looking confused. The spectators burst into noisy debate as they streamed off in search of warmth.
Little Chicken was left where he was, prostrate on the snow, beating one fist against the log in fury and weeping bitter tears that froze before they reached his chin.
3
Barely conscious, Rap was carried into the communal cabin, and there blacked out completely from the shock of sudden warmth. But the women were experienced in dealing with cases of severe exposure and they had their remedies ready. In a few minutes he became aware of their attentions, and of a large audience, also.
Not all the torture of the goblins' testing was reserved for the loser. Repeatedly he recovered consciousness and fainted again from the agonies as his limbs and body thawed, as he was compelled to move when he wanted to die, as hot fluids were forced down a tube into his stomach. He was massaged and rubbed and pummeled. Yet he hung on stubbornly to the thought that he was enduring this in public, and goblins admired courage. More important, he thought that Little Chicken would be watching. So he choked back the screams, to sweat and shudder through his ordeal in jaw-clenched silence.
The faintness passed in time, but he was left dazed and confused by shock and by the potions that had been forced into him. He was vaguely aware of voices asking what man-name he would take and he heard his own sniggering reply that Flat Nose was fine. He barely registered that they spent a long time working on his face.
Finally the mists inside his head began to clear and he found himself sitting on the men's platform around the central hearth in the big house. He was the only one on it, as if he were a king on, his throne. The building was packed with residents and guests—men and boys in their usual shameless state of undress, women and girls swathed like tents—all standing or sitting six or eight deep around the walls, leaving a vacant space in the center of the room, between the two hearths. The great fire was blistering his back and the smoke billowed low overhead like a ceiling.
He squirmed as he realized that he was thus on display while wearing nothing but a loincloth. Then he saw that the empty floor in front of him was not quite empty. His long shadow jiggled and danced on it, while sitting cross-legged in the center and deliberately placed in that shadow was Little Chicken, face expressionless, stoically awaiting his fate. His long queue, of which he had been so proud, had been hacked off at the roots, and he was wearing nothing at all. In mixed company? The shock of that discovery was enough to jerk Rap out of his confused lethargy. He looked around.
That was the signal. High Raven came strutting forward, his bears' tooth collar clicking, his rope of gray hair hanging down over his paunch. He also wore a ceremonial cap of black feathers with a high-curved raven's beak, sticking out above eyes that glittered in the firelight, full of hate and fury.
He raised his arms and bowed low. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”
The audience echoed him. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”
Rap had no idea what was expected of him, so he staggered to his feet. He was at once embraced by High Raven in a hug made slippery and smelly by their mutual coatings of bear grease.
“High Raven honors his son, Flat Nosel” High Raven embraced him again.
Two younger men came forward, looking no happier, and also embraced Rap—Dark Wing and Raven Claw. These were Little Chicken's brothers and now apparently Rap's, also, but the words and gestures of welcome stopped short of their eyes.
Then the new member of the family was presented with gifts—a ceremonial stone dagger and a complete set of buckskins, from boots to hood. Obviously these had been prepared in advance for Little Chicken. Equally obviously, some words were then expected from Rap, so he stammered that he was honored to be admitted to Raven Totem and the beadwork on the clothes was the finest he had ever seen. Then he ran out of ideas.
But apparently he was performing satisfactorily, for now the visiting chiefs were brought forward to be introduced—Death Hug of the Bear Totem, Many Needles of the Porcupines, and a couple of others. None of them was bothering to conceal his amusement at the way High Raven had outsmarted himself and lost a promising son. They were laughing at their host, and th
at humiliation was likely hurting him more than any regrets he had for Little Chicken.
Each chief said a few words, and Rap soon gathered that the inexplicable assistance he received from Fleabag was being regarded as divine intervention, which explained why Little Chicken was not howling for a rematch. Rap thought of the strange old woman he had seen. Chosen one . . . he is precious? Her prophecies had not come true. Obviously she had been nothing but a delusion.
The last of the honored visitors returned to his seat. So far, so good! Rap was beginning to feel more like himself, his head was clearing, and now he was apparently a goblin in good standing. He wondered if he could obtain assistance for his journey south.
He could dream again of reaching Kinvale! And after he had given Inos her warning, he might even manage to track down Darad and gain revenge.
His pleasant speculations were shattered when the next stage of the program turned out to be a wedding. He had forgotten young Clover Scent, but now she was led forward, swathed from crown to toes. She stood in expectant silence, eyes downcast, only her rather dull and plain face visible in her wimple. Her name was inappropriate. She looked much too young to be a bride, but under the gown she had a very promising figure, soft and rounded, yet youthfully firm. Rap had now accepted that he knew what people looked like inside their clothes. He just couldn't help knowing.
But he did not want a goblin wife.
How should he address High Raven? “Honored Father,” he stammered “I must soon go away. The way of my people is to have but one wife . .”
He was worried that this refusal might be interpreted as an insult, but no—for the first time High Raven's burning resentment seemed to cool a fraction. He bared yellow teeth in a predatory and approving smile. Darad had explained, of course, that the purpose of this murderous ceremony was to leave fewer men to share the women.