by P. W. Chance
They ducked into shade, into safety. Highhawk was laughing, pulling the witch-girl along by the hand. “I am a fool! I actually thought you might be dead, witch-girl! My wisest, cleverest, prettiest friend, I should have known!” People were rising around them, looking at the witch-girl in astonishment, whispering to each other in hopeful voices. Highhawk was crowing with delight. “You only went to face down the whole River tribe by yourself! I should have known you’re more likely to appear like lightning out of the sky than be dead!” She pulled the witch-girl toward her, wrapped her arms around her, and gave her a full, lingering kiss on the mouth.
As the kiss parted, the witch-girl grinned. “Such a warm welcome. I should wander off more often.”
Highhawk smiled. Eyes closed, she pressed her forehead against the witch-girl’s. “It was bad,” the tall girl sighed. “But you gave us a chance.”
“I will give us more than that.” The witch-girl frowned. “But first, how is White-stag’s injury? Show me to him.”
A murmur went through the gathered tribe. Highhawk blinked. “How did you know… bah. Magic tricks.” She rolled her eyes. The witch-girl tried not to look smug.
Highhawk led her further in, to where Mother Mara sat by the wounded brother. The witch-girl knelt, examining him.
“He took a knife in the side, while he was wrestling with that giant they have,” said Mara. “Washed it out with boiled water. Washed the fishbone needle and the gut-thread in the boiling pot, then closed him up tight. He’s still leaking a bit, though.”
“Well-stitched, Mother.” The witch-girl frowned at the wound. “We should bandage this with whiteleaf, to keep out infection. Most of my herbs are in my hut, and my hut is burning, but I packed a little of everything I might need.” She bit her lip, pulling what she had out of her bag. Barely enough, and there would be other wounded.
She folded the leaves together carefully, mashing them in her hands to bring out the healing sap. She kept an eye on White-stag’s slow breathing, the rise and fall of his broad chest. He’s beautiful like this, she thought as she worked.. She could see Black-dog in her mind, wounded, lying in her hut, waiting for her hands to heal him. They look so much alike, when they sleep. But when they wake, when they speak, they are like the sun and the night.
Mother Mara passed a leather strap around White-stag’s waist to hold the bandage in place. The witch-girl secured it carefully, tying the knot tight to keep pressure on the wound. The dripping blood slowed, then finally stopped. The witch-girl sighed, sat back, and then froze in surprise.
White-stag was awake, and watching her.
“Hello, witch-girl.” His voice was rough. He smiled awkwardly. “It’s good to see you are well. Do you have news of my brother? Where has he gone?”
The golden-haired warrior was looking up at her, smile full of pain and hope. Highhawk was watching her closely. Mother Mara and a half-dozen other members of the tribe were nearby, listening.
The witch-girl took a slow breath, steadied herself.
“In the forest, Black-dog saw a terrible spirit of misfortune and death. Knowing it might kill him, he hunted it, chasing it away from the village to keep us safe. He hunted it to the top of White Mountain.” It’s true, she thought. It wasn’t last night. But it is true, and it is the part of the truth they need to know. “He and I worked magic there, so that he would not go mad. He is well. He is strong. And he is close.”
Murmurs rippled through the cave, from the healing alcove out toward the entrance. They seemed to grow louder, there, and then swept back toward the witch-girl, a chorus of surprise and joy.
Black-dog was striding through the cave, back straight, ashes and soot on his arms. In his left hand he carried a bag, and in his right, a heavy staff.
White-stag was grinning, weary and relieved. “Brother. I see you heard of all the glory Highhawk and Bors have been earning, and came back to beg them to teach you.”
Black-dog smiled, leaning on his staff. “No. I heard the witch-girl had abandoned me for you, and came back to fight you for her. But how can I fight a sickly man, on the verge of death? Heal faster.”
The witch-girl pouted. “How can you complain, Black-dog, when you were gone so long? You were supposed to make a distraction so I could sneak in, and then circle right around after me. What were you doing out there?”
Black-dog nodded, then kneeled and opened his bag. “Whiteleaf for wounds,” he said, passing a bundle of leaves to Mother Mara. “Willow for fever, mortar and pestle,” the witch-girl recognized her own tools, “And… I am sorry.” From the bag he took three pieces of soot-stained, painted, dry old bone.
Grandmother’s skull.
Gently, tenderly, the witch-girl took the shattered bones from his hands. She arranged the pieces carefully, matching break to break, holding them together with the slight pressure of her fingers. She slowed her breathing and opened herself, listening, hoping. She listened for the wind, for the cries of distant birds. She focused on the sounds of the cave, the tribe’s breathing and quiet movements. She reached out for an echo of a whispering, laughing voice, for the warmth of the old woman’s presence.
Nothing. She was gone.
“You knew,” the witch-girl whispered. “That’s why you said so much, gave me so much guidance. You were saying goodbye.”
She felt warmth around her shoulders, and to either side. Black-dog’s arm was around her, and Highhawk was leaning against her. For a moment, the three of them sat together in silence, sharing their warmth.
The witch-girl sighed. “I thought we might get through this without any funerals. Well. Let’s keep it down to one.” She raised her head. “The challenge is at dusk, yes?”
“How in the empty night did you know about that?” Highhawk sighed. “Witchcraft. Right. Yes, it’s at first dark. In the cave depths, for the right to the Red Cave, the lake, and all the land around.”
“Then let’s get a few hours of rest,” the witch-girl said, “before we go down to the underworld.”
*********
Black-dog stood by the fire, casting a long, black shadow out of the mouth of the cave and down the hill. In the ruined village below, the River-folk were gathered around their own bonfire. The witch-girl could see the distant figure of Ten-hands, towering over his kin, and the dark-haired River-witch with him. The sun was setting over the lake.
Black-dog turned, looking slowly around the cave. The full tribe was assembled, watching him, whispering to each other in worried voices.
The witch-girl stood. She raised her hands and shook them, bracelets rattling. The cave went silent, save for the crackling of the fire, as all eyes turned towards her.
“Our champion fights for the Red Cave tribe,” she said. “They must fight with all our strength. Who here is our strongest warrior?”
Great, slow Bors got to his feet, barrel-chested, with shoulders like smooth river-stones. “I am strongest!”
Black-dog faced him. “Then throw me down, or give me your strength!”
Bors charged like an avalanche. Black-dog met him shoulder-to shoulder, and they strained against each other, the tribe cheering as their feet dug into the sand, as they gritted their teeth and groaned with effort. Then Black-dog slipped sideways, and Bors was falling, plowing into the sand with Black-dog’s knee landing on his back.
Bors laughed as Black-dog pulled him to his feet. Black-dog gave him a firm nod. “I take your strength.”
Bors returned to his seat, friends patting him on the back, as Black-dog turned his gaze around the circle again.
The witch-girl rattled her charms. “Our champion must fight with all our skill and speed. Who here is our swiftest warrior?”
Highhawk waited as Black-dog turned, until his back was toward her. Then she stood, grinning. She pulled a handaxe from her belt and threw it at the back of Black-dog’s head, whirring through the air.
It stopped with a slap, as the haft hit the palm of Black-dog’s hand. He held the axe, smiling thinly. “I t
ake your speed.” Highhawk grinned and bowed as the tribe cheered.
Black-dog turned again, sweeping his gaze over the assembled tribe. He stopped, facing one figure. A golden-haired warrior, sitting huddled under a blanket, holding the wound in his side.
Black-dog stepped toward him, looming over him. White-stag raised his eyes, looking up at his brother. Black-dog’s back was to the fire. His face was hidden in shadow.
White-stag was wounded. Weak. Night was falling. He stared up at his brother. The witch-girl watched, heart beating fast. She remembered how they once had fought, trying strength against strength. Going from play to vicious combat, and finally to desperation, each one trapped by a helpless need to break the other.
The tribe was silent. The brothers had led the hunt together for three years. But all knew that someday, there would be a chief.
“He must fight,” the witch-girl said, “with all our courage.” Her eyes were fixed on Black-dog. She watched the shadows on his face, and saw him baring his teeth. “Who here is our bravest warrior?”
White-stag looked up at his dark brother. At his feet, spread in a combat stance. At the axe in his hand, held ready. At his steady, dark-eyed stare.
White-stag stood, slowly, his jaw set against the pain. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he spread his arms wide, hands empty, chest bare, ready to receive the strike.
Black-dog stepped forward and embraced him.
The witch-girl could barely hear, over the whooping and cheering of the tribe, what they whispered to each other.
“I take your courage, brother.”
“And my love.” White-stag’s voice was rough. His eyes were closed to stop his tears.
Black-dog was calm, even now. “Lead them well. Care for them.”
“Stop that. You’ll be back by morning.”
They parted. Black-dog turned, and reached out toward the witch-girl. She took his hand. Together they walked to the entrance of the cave, casting long, twinned shadows down the hill.
Their enemies were coming.
Ten-hands and Manala were marching up the hill, side by side, the warriors of the gathered River-tribes moving in a dark wall behind them.
“You can take Manala?” Black-dog asked under his breath as their enemies approached.
“I can. She is skilled, but far from the heart of her power. The cave and the dark, I know better than she does. You can take Ten-hands?” The witch-girl glanced sideways, watching Black-dog’s face.
Black-dog stared down the slope, watching Ten-hands advance. The River-warrior was painted gray for war, stained with river-clay, the bands on his arms painted bright white, shouting his strength to any who saw. He was taller than any man of the Red Cave tribe, big as a bear, and his feet struck the ground like falling stones. In his hand, he carried his shining copper axe.
“He is dangerous.” Black-dog closed his eyes. He took two long, slow breaths. His eyes opened. “I can kill him.”
The witch-girl frowned. “Can you do it without sacrificing yourself?”
Black-dog was silent.
“I will beat mine quickly, and then come to help you with yours,” the witch-girl hissed.
There was no more time to plan. The River-folk had drawn up around them in a broad half-circle, spears held at ease. Ten-hands stepped closer, Manala a half-pace behind him. She was painted black, with white bones down her arms and legs, and a white skull on her face. She smiled, her black-and-white painted lips curving eerily, as Ten-hands began to speak.
“The greatest warrior of the Red Cave, and the greatest witch.” He laughed, a hard, mocking bark, and spread his arms wide. “The coward and the fake! You would have died a hundred times already, Running-dog, if you were not always fleeing and hiding in the bushes like a rabbit! If you had ever dared to stay and fight me, I would have smashed your fingers and crushed your throat, for the joy of watching you choke to death on the ground before me. And now, you give yourself into my hands! Is this your people’s way of surrendering? Is your coward’s heart drumming like running feet in your chest, telling you to turn and run again?” Behind him, the gathered warriors whooped and laughed.
Black-dog turned toward the river-witch and bowed his head politely. “I greet you, Manala.” He turned to the warrior, and gave him the barest hint of a nod. “I greet you, Ten-hands. My heartbeat is as steady as the waves upon the shore. The waves will greet the morning, but your heart will beat no more.”
The witch-girl saw Manala’s eyes open wide as the curse was spoken. The river-witch stared at Black-dog, then snapped to the witch-girl, searching her face. The witch-girl smiled politely. You brought a big one, but mine has strange gifts. Was that in your battle-plan, river-witch?
Ten-hands was sneering. “Did you learn that from your pale-skinned slut? Did she tell you it was magic, that it made spirits dance or ghosts sing? It’s nothing but words, you fool. She has no real magic. Just lies and smoke.”
“We are met for the challenge,” the witch-girl said, ignoring the huge warrior. “Let us go into the depths. There, in the sight of the earth and the spirits of all our ancestors, we will settle this.”
Black-dog stepped into the entrance, keeping to the right. Ten-hands showed his teeth, but stepped up beside him, to his left. The witch-girl followed behind Black-dog, with Manala to her side. A long column of River-warriors followed them as they made their way into the cave, winding through the great high-ceilinged cavern and down into the earth. The people of the Red Cave tribe were lined along the right wall, and the River-warriors took positions on the left, watching their opposites, both tribes ensuring no one passed into the depths to interfere with the challenge.
They walked in silence, ignoring small side-passages, their route curling and twisting downward. The torches were spaced more widely here. The warriors and witches alike were painted with red light, flickering shadows. The witch-girl watched Black-dog’s back, his long hair hanging like a dark banner. Beside him was Ten-hands, tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair in a swishing war-braid. Beside the witch-girl, the River-witch’s black paint disappeared in the gloom, leaving her a grinning skeleton with a twinkling eyes and a cape of braids, hung with beads and charms.
They came at last to the deep place, the hidden lake. The edge of the underworld. Its surface was a black mirror. The arched ceiling above was hung with stalactites, their shadows shifting in the light of the two fires on the shore.
They stood between the fires. They turned to face each other, warrior to warrior, witch to witch.
Manala grinned, showing white teeth within the painted skull.
The witch-girl kept her gaze steady, thinking of how to win quickly.
Ten-hands bared his teeth in a confident sneer.
Black-dog smiled, slowly, like drawing a knife across a throat. His eyes burned with fierce joy.
A drop of water fell from the ceiling to the lake, the sound echoing through the chamber. The warriors sprang toward each other. Ten-hands brought his axe upward toward Black-dog’s jaw, the copper shining like fire, but Black-dog’s stone axe was striking towards Ten-hands’ wrist, and the larger warrior had to twist his swing away. Black-dog’s free hand closed around Ten-hands’ thigh, fingers sinking in like claws to bruise and tear muscle, but before he could press his advantage the copper axe was coming down toward his shoulder. The warriors shoved away from each other, panting like fighting dogs. They both stepped back, away from the firelight, slipping into the maze of stone pillars to hunt and ambush one another.
Manala grinned. She took a handful of dried leaves from her pouch and tossed them in her fire, and the chamber began to fill with scented smoke. “You will beat me quick, and then go to help the Black-dog. Yes?”
The witch-girl passed a hand over her own fire, dropping a pinch of dust. The flames glittered blue and green for a moment. “Perhaps I will help him. I will surely beat you quickly.”
Manala smiled, crouching on the ground. She rolled her head back on her shoulders
, breathing in the smoke. “I have a better story.”
“Oh?” The witch-girl felt the sting of the smoke in her throat, sweet and calming. She raised a hand from her pouch to her mouth, coughed a little. Not the herbs she was used to.
“A story of foolish, cruel men. Men who think they own the stars, think their strength is greater than mountains.” Manala stretched her arms wide, turning them slowly so that her bracelets glittered. Shining black stones, darkly iridescent feathers. Beautiful. “They forget that they are only little naked animals, dancing by their little fires, so, so small, with the mountains and the river and the sky all vast around them. They make such trouble for their brothers. And much, much more trouble for their sisters. Wicked little animals they are, so sure their wills are mighty.”
The witch-girl crouched, her hands on the cool red sand of the shore. The smoke and the River-witch’s soft voice were rolling over her like waves, like the steady current of the river. “How does the story end?” she mumbled.
Manala was moving toward her, hands on the sand, creeping like a cat. The witch-girl watched her, the shine of her eyes, the sway of her breasts, the rocking of her hips as she crept closer. “One day, the foolish men fell down a hole in the earth, and beat at one another with fists and stones until they were dead. And then the clever sisters, wise sisters, ruled over the tribes instead.”
The witch-girl was sitting on the sand now, leaning back, hands behind her. She watched the River-witch. There were shining beads swaying in her long braids. There were muscles in her dark-painted arms and shoulders that moved like snakes in water as she crept closer. Her lips moved, curled, smiled, changing shape as she spoke. Her voice was like drowning in wine. “And the pretty white sister and the wise water-sister found each other in the dark, and came together, and learned each other well.”
She was creeping up the witch-girl’s body, her breasts brushing softly against pale skin. Her lips wandered slowly up the witch-girl’s neck. They found her mouth, and black-painted lips pressed against red, tongues flicking out.