by Dave Duncan
“I will take her for you?”
Rap thought that Clover Scent might prefer one of Little Chicken's brothers, but he was not going to argue the matter. He nodded, and that was enough. In no time High Raven, as chief, performed the ceremony, marrying Clover Scent to himself, as bridegroom. The bride's expression did not change by a flicker, so either she did not care or she was being very tactful. High Raven had lost a son and gained a wife. He seemed to be pleased by the exchange.
Rap had not eaten all day. A quick steak would be a very nice thought. But now came the moment he had been unconsciously dreading. Clover Scent had been removed. He was left standing in his place of honor with High Raven—and Little Chicken was still sitting in the middle of that arena. He knew the agenda. He rose and came forward, head held high in spite of his nudity, the center of attention. He dropped to his knees in front of Rap.
“My life is worthless,” he proclaimed, in what was obviously a ritual speech, “and must be short. Let my death be long.” Then he stared up at Rap unwinkingly.
Rap studied him with astonishment. In Little Chicken's place he would be a quivering, gibbering, ashen-faced jelly. Did he really not care? Then he saw the tiny flags of fear: the tightness in the strong neck muscles, the tenseness around the eyes, a fine dew of sweat sparkling on the greased forehead. Only the brave truly know fear, Sergeant Thosolin liked to say, for only they have mastered it. Rap felt admiration then. Little Chicken was afraid, but he had mastered his fear.
“You know our customs?” High Raven inquired.
Even leaving aside warnings from delusive old women, Rap had no intention of damaging any part of the young goblin, but he could not resist taking a little revenge for the days of taunting. “Little Chicken has told me many good ideas.”
High Raven seemed pleased. He nodded. “How do you work?”
Seeing Rap hesitate, the chief explained—some performers liked to hang the victims by the hands, which made the show easier for the audience to see. Others preferred to stake him out on the floor, where he was more accessible, or over trestles. The choice was Rap's, for this was to be his show.
Rap pursed his lips, as if considering the matter. Then he appealed to the victim. “Which do you think best?”
The irony did not escape Little Chicken; his eyes narrowed briefly. “On floor!” he said emphatically. “Last longer.”
Now Rap's conscience rebelled. This teasing was a torture in itself. “I do not wish to do this thing.”
Father and son reacted with shock.
“It is duty!” Little Chicken shouted, looking quite horrified. “I will tell you things to do! Many things, much pain!”
“Silence, trash!” High Raven turned to Rap. “Who will you have do this, then?” Perhaps he was hoping to be appointed substitute torturer as well as substitute bridegroom, to be avenged on this son who had so shamed him and his house.
Rap was sweating now, and not only from the heat of the roaring furnace behind him. He suspected that if he said the wrong thing he might yet find himself staked out and providing the entertainment. Much worse was the realization that Little Chicken's fate might be unavoidable, in which case the kindest course would be for Rap to undertake the job and give him a quick death in a clumsy amateur's mistake. Could he bring himself to do that?
“What happens,” he asked, “if I do not say another to do this?”
Little Chicken howled and hurled himself forward to embrace Rap's feet. “No!” he shouted. “I will make good show! I will die very slow! Long pain! Much agony!”
Unbelievable! Rap stared down at him, speechless. What alternative could possibly be worse than what he was asking for?
High Raven had colored in fury and he glared up at Rap. “You bring shame upon the clan! You disappoint our guests!”
“It is not the way of my people!” Rap protested, glaring back. He had long ago discovered that sometimes the only way to handle old Honinin was to use that glare – stubborn. It did not work on High Raven, though.
“We are your people! The Raven Clan!”
“Also I have another people.”
The chief was almost foaming with rage. “Insult! Renegade! You will leave this house. Go! Take trash with you!”
Rap thought of the arctic night waiting outside and the flimsy buckskins he had been given. He wondered if he would be allowed to take even those, or would just be driven out as he was.
“I am your guest! I wore good furs. You send a guest away, keep his furs?” He knew what had happened to those furs.
So did High Raven, but he did not know that Rap knew. He scowled and glanced around. “Furs will be found. You will go tomorrow.” He looked down at the groveling Little Chicken, who was wailing and rubbing his face in the dirt. “And take trash.”
The audience was muttering with disapproval and disappointment, but it sounded as if Rap would be allowed to depart safely, and also that he had just acquired a companion—a companion who would have every incentive to break his neck at the first opportunity.
But Little Chicken was harder to convince than his father. He rose to his knees and raised clasped hands in a last desperate appeal to Rap. “Flat Nose! Do not leave me in shame! I make good show! Never cry out! Long, long pain!”
His distress seemed so real and so intense that for a moment Rap hesitated. He had certainly played foul in the testing, cheating Little Chicken out of what should have been an easy victory. Was it fair now to cheat him out of the lingering death he dearly wanted? Little Chicken, it seemed, would not be able to live with himself . . . but Rap had to live with himself, also, and he had been the winner. He shook his head.
The burly goblin threw back his head and wailed a long, long howl of lament. Then he clambered to his feet and slunk away, doubled over with shame, hiding his nakedness now with his hands.
From the look in High Raven's eye, Rap was no longer welcome in the place of honor. He was about to leave when he saw his gifts still lying on the platform. Thinking he might persuade Little Chicken to accept them, he gathered them up quickly, then walked away. The crowd parted to let him through, glaring contemptuously.
High Raven raised his arms to the company. “Raven Totem does not disappoint guests! More food! More beer! Cheep-Cheep, Fledgling Down—come forward.”
Rap's knees quivered in a sudden surge of horror—he had just condemned one of the younger boys to take Little Chicken's place on the butcher block. He thought that Little Chicken deserved it more, but then he remembered that it was only his arrival and betrayal by Darad that had prevented either Cheep-Cheep or Fledgling Down being there anyway, so really nothing had changed. Not his fault.
He reached the back of the crowd and stopped, baffled. Some of the spectators were still turning to send angry glares in his direction. He had no friends in that place, but now he was probably not eligible to sleep in the boys' house, so he would have to stay. Then a hand fell on his shoulder like a falling tree. He was spun around to face Little Chicken.
He had found a loincloth, but his face was still filthy with the dirt from the floor, streaked by tears. It also wore an expression of urgency. “You come!” He moved toward the door.
Rap dug in his toes and tried to resist the pull. Go out into the night with Little Chicken? Instant suicide!
The young goblin seemed puzzled by Rap's reluctance, then he guessed the reason. He smiled bitterly. “Flat Nose frightened of trash?”
Rap squared his shoulders and went. Little Chicken did not saunter this time. He dashed through the unbearable dark cold. Rap ran at his heels, bare feet rapidly going numb in the snow. They arrived at the boys' house and plunged in.
It was empty and dark, the fire shrunk to embers. Little Chicken scooped up an icy rug and draped it around the quivering Rap, who dropped his bundle of gifts to huddle the fur tight about him. His companion set to work at the hearth, blowing and poking and stirring life into it. Soon he had flames leaping again. Then he looked up to study Rap—who was shivering mig
htily inside his robe. Little Chicken squatted in nothing but a leather apron, yet apparently at ease in the freezing temperature.
“Not go tomorrow. Go now!”
“Why?” Rap's mind screamed at the thought.
“Dark Wing, Raven Claw. My brothers follow us.”
They would want revenge? But a man who had so recently begged for death should not be suddenly eager to escape it. Rap was suspicious still.
“I need my furs,” he said.
Little Chicken scowled. “Furs bad! Buckskins better. I show you.”
“You stand the cold better than I do.” That remark was not enormously tactful, and the goblin heaved a sigh of regret.
“Yes. But I look after you now.”
“Why should I trust you?”
Little Chicken jumped up and stamped his bare foot furiously. “I look after you!” he shouted. Apparently Rap had discovered yet another way to humiliate him. He was dark-faced and breathing hard, and his big fists had clenched until the bones showed white. Rap kept a puzzled silence.
Little Chicken grunted. “I am your trash—slave. My duty to look after you. Where we go?”
“South. Across the mountains.”
Little Chicken nodded as if that were two doors down the street and not weeks away. “I take you. We go now.”
The fire was starting to flame up noisily and brightly, but Rap was still shivering. Then his fur robe was snatched away and Little Chicken began slapping big handfuls of grease on him, spreading it in a disgustingly thick layer.
“Here, I can do that,” Rap protested, trying to take the bucket.
Little Chicken knocked his hand away and kept on working. In a few moments Rap discovered that the grease did seem to keep the cold out, when it was thick enough. Then he was being helped into the new buckskins, his protests completely ignored. They fitted surprisingly well, yet Little Chicken fussed and adjusted ties and straps on waist and ankles and wrists, taking a long time to dress his new master to his satisfaction. Then he said, “Sit!” and began greasing himself, Rap tried to help and got shouted at, but was grudgingly allowed to coat his slave's back for him. For trash, Little Chicken was remarkably lacking in respect. He donned his old buckskins, which had been lying in lonely neglect by the door, Then he said, “Stay! Back soon,” and vanished out into the moonlight.
Rap's farsight traced him automatically, discovering then that the whole horde of goblins was pouring out from the big house. The boys were ready, and a bonfire had been lighted to brighten their coming contest. Little Chicken dodged around the far side of the stable, made a quick dash to the women's house, and headed for the food store.
Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down were led out in fur robes. Now Rap tried desperately not to watch, but apparently farsight could not be turned off at will—not, at least, when there was something of interest happening. He tried to distract himself by inspecting the horses in the stable, for the visitors had brought twenty or more of the scrawny ponies with them and he must be sure to select the best for his escape . . . but in spite of himself, he was a spectator. He knew how the youths staggered as they took the strain of the load, how they began to tremble when the cold ate into their exposed flesh. They did not push and pull as Little Chicken had done; they just stood and stared doggedly at each other and tried to endure. They lasted much longer than Rap had, but then Cheep-Cheep buckled without warning. Fledgling Down was wrapped up and rushed off into the lodge again. The spectators followed, two of them dragging the unconscious Cheep-Cheep.
Then Little Chicken returned. He carried a very small backpack, most of which seemed to be occupied by a wallet of bear grease. It also contained fire-making equipment, a couple of knives, a little food, and much cord, which might be for trapping or fishing. From somewhere he had obtained two short bows and two quivers of arrows. Rap was a sorry archer, but he decided he could carry his set as a spare for Little Chicken to use.
“Eat!” The goblin thrust a wad of hard wafers into Rap's hand. They tasted like hay mixed with honey, but he was starved and chewed them greedily, crouching by the hearth.
Little Chicken had not eaten that day, either; he sat by the door and munched loudly, apparently finding the vicinity of the fireplace too warm for comfort. He also talked continuously with his mouth full, in his usual laconic phrases. “Moon up. Go to Porcupine Totem. No rush now. Cheep-Cheep make good show. If Fledgling Down, not last so long.”
“How can you know that?” Rap asked, squirming. His farsight told him that Fledgling Down was already sitting on the platform, being hailed by whatever his new name was. He had recovered much faster than Rap had done.
“Good blood!” Little Chicken explained: Cheep-Cheep's brother Sweet Nestling had lost to Raven Claw two winters before and had done very well, the best show in many years. “First dug out toenails,” he said. “No scream. Said 'Thank you.' Then hammer toes flat, one by one, with rocks. Said 'Thank you.' Much applause. Then—”
Rap had lost his appetite. “I don't want to hear!” he squealed.
For an instant the old mockery gleamed in Little Chicken's eye. “Then sharp stick from fire . . .” If Rap disliked hearing such barbarities even when they did not concern him personally, then here was a way to get back at him. So Little Chicken proceeded to narrate all of Sweet Nestling's death agonies in meticulous detail. He spoke with great admiration, sounding sincerely regretful that he had not been allowed to try to better the performance, and watching Rap's nauseated reaction with bitter joy.
By the time the meal was over, Rap knew that Cheep-Cheep was already hanging in the middle of the lodge, waiting for his long ordeal to start. He must get out of range quickly.
“Let's go,” he said, wondering if he would freeze to death before Cheep-Cheep died. “How many horses do we take?”
Little Chicken frowned. “No horses. Run.”
“Run all the way? No horses?”
“Horses?” Little Chicken spat. “Horses for babies and old women. Men run!”
Before Rap could argue, a handful of bear grease was pushed in his face. Little Chicken spread it with care, on Rap's lips and eyelids and even on the insides of his nostrils. Then he adjusted Rap's hood, pulling down and lacing a mask that Rap had not known existed, covering his face completely except for eye and nose holes. He did the same for himself and turned for the door, conversation now being almost impossible.
He was serious, obviously—they were going to run to the mountains. He began a slow jog as soon as his moccasins touched the snow. Rap fell in behind him, not truly believing that the feat was possible. All the way? The cold would freeze their lungs in minutes.
They jogged out the gateway and started across the clearing.
Two men against the wastelands? Two boys . . . Rap felt horribly vulnerable, much more so than when he had set out from Krasnegar with Andor. Perhaps it was the absence of the horses, perhaps just that now he knew more. Only the two of them, master and slave? He had trusted Andor completely. How could he ever trust Little Chicken, who might well intend to imprison Rap in some convenient spot and then put his good ideas into practice?
One more companion would be a wise precaution, Rap decided.
Fleabag, sleeping happily in his snow hollow, jerked his head up as if he had heard a call. He rose and shook himself. He bowed low to ease his front legs. He pointed his nose at the sky to stretch his back legs. Then he set off into the forest in a wolf's long, easy lope.
4
Buckskins were indeed better than furs—for running. They weighed nothing, they seemed to let the sweat out without letting the cold air in, and feet could flex inside the soft moccasins and so stay warm. Encased in grease and leather, Rap jogged over the moonlit snow behind Little Chicken and gradually began to feel more confident. Fleabag soon joined them and then took up position ahead.
After covering a league or so, Little Chicken dropped to a walk. He snapped off the icicles below his nose so that he could open his mask, but when Rap raised his mit
ts to do the same, the goblin knocked his hands down.
Red and puffing, he studied Rap impassively for a moment, then asked, “Blisters? Rubbings?”
Rap mumbled something incoherent and shook his head.
Little Chicken nodded in grudging satisfaction. “You run good, town boy.”
Rap grinned, but only to himself. He nodded.
“Go much faster, then?”
Rap nodded with less certainty, and the goblin chuckled as he closed his hood, but when he broke from the walk into a jog again, he kept the same pace as before.
Any resident of Krasnegar needed good legs. Rap had hoped that his week on horseback might have left him in better shape than Little Chicken was. As the hours crept by, he discarded that idea. The night became a blur of snow and trees, of shadows and moonbeams, of pounding heart, of smoky breath out and icy breath in, of chest burned by the frigid air, of Fleabag loping along, always at a distance, of Little Chicken ever just ahead, usually jogging, rarely taking a walk break. At times they must run with hands held high to divert branches, at times they were slowed to a snail pace by cluttered deadfall, but mostly they just ran. There was no conversation and Rap would not have been capable of it anyway. He was soon unable to think or feel anything except a steady, grinding, suicidal resolve that the town boy was going to keep up with the goblin.
Just before moonset they came to Porcupine Totem, and when the dogs began to bark, Little Chicken stripped off the masks. He pushed Rap ahead as they approached the doors. By that time Rap was too weary to wonder why, but he was accepted as Flat Nose of the Raven Totem without question. Most of the clan were absent, visiting Raven Totem for the entertainment, but there were a couple of young men left in charge, and many old folk, and some children too young to travel.
The village layout was very similar to the Ravens', perhaps a little larger. Rap staggered into a lodge that seemed quite identical and met insufferable heat and glare. His knees almost buckled on the spot. Yet the household had been asleep and was only just reviving the fire for the visitors, so perhaps the hall was really quite cool. Little Chicken's fingers expertly unfastened Rap's buckskins for him, and he stepped out of them with relief, sank down on the hearthstones, and greedily drank of whatever it was they gave him. His mind was as full of smoke as the ceiling. All he wanted was sleep, sleep, sleep . . .