by Bill Fawcett
Talwe rose in a rapid, menacing surge until he was staring Forun full in the eyes. “That’s enough,” he commanded, but the other mrem only laughed.
“No, it’s not,” Forun responded. “Not until you leave us forever. You don’t belong here, darkfur, and we don’t want you.”
Ondra jumped up and moved jerkily toward Forun. His back and tail puffed in anger. “Talwe’s right,” he said. “That’s enough. Talwe has been one of us since he was born, and he’ll remain one of us until he dies. It’s not your place to say differently.”
With Ondra’s words, Talwe’s resolve snapped. He could stand Forun’s hatred, but he resented Ondra’s help. He could defend himself. The need to act overwhelmed all other considerations.
“Even if you stop now, Forun,” the dark-furred mrem announced for all the hunters to hear, “you have still gone too far. You accuse me of magic, and that is bad enough. But when you speak of my mother, a female you did not know, I will not sit back and listen.”
The hunters were silent now, staring into the space between the two mrem’s faces. Talwe waited until he could feel the tension mount, and then made an accusation of his own.
“You are one who lies, Forun, and we will dance with knives to prove you false.”
The gathered hunters began talking all at once. Dance-duels had once been common, had formerly been the most important way of settling differences, but lately they had fallen from use. Always in their songs the elders would sing of the dance-duel, and always the songs would bring tears to their eyes, but among the younger hunters the sword-duel, or the knife-duel, had become the standard. It was a change the elders lamented, saying something important was being lost. But like every change it was irrevocable.
Stepping away from the fire, Talwe began to question the wisdom of what he had done. He could win the dance-duel—there was no question of that—but if he won he might be worse off than before. For a time his honor, and his mother’s memory, would be completely without challenge, but it wouldn’t take long for the mrem of the village to grow to distrust him once more. Even worse, he had no way of knowing the effect on Forun. Losing the dance-duel might silence him, but more probably it would make him even more bitter than he was now.
But the dance was about to start, and Talwe could not back out now. If he did, Forun would win, and if Forun won....
He took up his position, ten strides from the north and east fires. His claws extended and retracted in anticipation. The hunters formed a circle large enough to include the four fires, giving the dancers all the room they needed. Talwe saw his opponent walk past the other fires and onto the dance-earth. A grin was on Forun’s face, and Talwe could see that he was not frightened. Nodding to the mrem who watched, Forun planted himself and waited for the dance to begin.
Talwe drew his knife. His sword was his best weapon, but by choosing the knife he showed the mrem that the dance, not the weapon, would be his concentration. In an old-style dance-duel the dance was all, with the dancers’ claws the only weapons allowed. But to the hunters of the village, the true skill lay in combining weapon and dance, because in this way dance and hunt were combined.
Raising his knife to the sky, Talwe closed his eyes and spoke so all could hear. “Watch over me, Inla, Mother of the Earth,” he shouted, “because now I dance in your honor.” And then he sang the Song of the Dance-Duel, his voice smooth and melodious, and the hunters at the fire swayed as the sound filled their ears.
“And watch over me, Luata, River Mother,” the other shouted, his own voice higher and sharper, the song of his dance-song becoming lighter and faster. After Talwe’s, Forun’s own chant seemed harsher, crueler, filled not with the waters of the river but rather with the roar of the rapids, and the hunters sat rigid as he wove to and fro.
Talwe opened his eyes, and saw Forun staring at Arigain and then at him. The other mrem’s eyes were narrowed now, his brows knitted, and the exposed teeth were clenched tight in his mouth. So much fur had bristled on the pale mrem’s back that even that covering his shoulders had risen. His dance would be fierce, Talwe knew, a dance filled with starts and stops and jumps far too high to be pure, a dance that spoke of hate and not of beauty. To counter it, to stop Forun’s dance before it cut deep through his own, Talwe knew he would have to start first, bringing his body through the movements of grace as quickly as he could without losing the depth of the flow. He knew he must reach the peak of his strength, the moment when the sound of the flow turned to the silence of stillness, at precisely the moment when Forun reached the height of his dance’s frenzy. If he did that, he would be in control.
Talwe knew as well that Forun would do what he could to stop his opponent’s dance in mid-flow. For Forun to win, he would have to strike early and hard. Talwe’s was the harder task by far.
Talwe began. To his right he leaned, then raised his left leg high and turned. His toes pointed straight, claws extending and retracting as it moved. Then he bent to the side until he knew that his left leg rested just above the ground. Then he spun slowly on the toes of his right foot, and let his hands float to the sky. While the hunters looked on, and while his opponent waited to move, Talwe let his arms fall gently in front of his face as he rested his head on his shoulder. His expression was now peaceful, his fur lying smooth.
A sign of submission? whispered the hunters to each other. Yes, Talwe thought. The ancient sign. The sign of a dancer who first submitted to the gods, then danced for them, not for himself.
With that sign, Forun leapt high in the air.
Spinning and whirling, he raced past the hunters with all claws partially extended, the claws on his feet digging gouges in the dry earth. Once past them he stopped, spun on his right foot, then jumped to the left and dropped to a crouch. Slowly now he advanced, rotating his head to the sound of his silent song, while the claws of his hands extended to the full and sliced their slow sweep through the air. Then he stood up, pulled a knife from his belt, and urged Talwe to answer the challenge.
Not yet, thought Talwe, I will not come yet. He knew his opponent expected him to accept, but Talwe felt this was the time for surprise. Lithely he rose, first to his knees and then to his feet, his body continually flowing to his own unsung song. He felt alive and the wind in the night air joined the rhythm of his dance. He moved with it, anger forgotten. The fire crackled softly as he started to spin, then built to a bright, joyous flame as he vaulted it in his first leap.
Two strides from Forun he landed, and the mrem took a step back. But then, with a shout, Forun danced to his right. Swiftly he stepped, and the hunters were awed, and on the last step he braced his right foot, screamed to the cloud god, and leapt. Straight at Inla’s dancer he flew, his claws swishing down through the air, and the dark-furred mrem bent back low to the ground so the claws would cut nothing but wind.
It was, Talwe knew, only the start. He watched as Forun raised his right arm into the air, and then as he brought his left arm up to meet it. From his left hand to his right he now passed a knife, the sign that the claws weren’t enough, the sign that the duel had truly begun.
Talwe had challenged, and Forun now accepted. They would fight, as their custom demanded, until a winner was clear.
Both mrem now leaned forward. They stepped tentatively toward each other, their legs and toes pointed, until they were only two strides apart. Then they touched knives, and with that gesture began the Dance of Justice.
Forun struck first. Without warning he lunged, his knife barely missing Talwe, who spun quickly out of the way, but did not jump. The lunge was not dance, Talwe well knew. It was a killing blow, but to make that point clear he must counter it with dance alone. And so now he spun again, then he stopped and extended his knife hand, held his left leg off the ground, and dropped his head to his chest, daring Forun to break form and strike again.
The hunters cried aloud, amazement in their voices. Talwe smiled.
For a long time they danced, the one acrobatic and the other graceful, in the light of the flames. The large moon rose and added silvery tones to the flame-painted gold on the dancing mrem’s fur. After a time the forms were all completed. Their movements were free now, neither named nor encumbered by tradition. Forun flying high, his greater strength allowing him to throw his lithe form through amazing convolutions. Talwe’s dance was less spectacular but more controlled. Occasionally a move by the paler mrem would cause a stir among those watching, but it was Talwe’s graceful dance that held their attention.
Both mrem found themselves almost lost in their dance, each striving to rise to new levels, nearly forgetting that they also fought. Many dance-duels ended here, both parties too overcome by the ritual to harbor further hatred. But this time neither would forget.
Eight times Forun brought down his knife in an arc, and eight times Talwe danced, or leapt, or rolled gracefully out of its path, moving almost as soon as the blows began. At last Forun kicked, claws extended more out of anger and frustration than as an attack, but again Talwe reacted before he was hit. Finally both mrem stopped, and while the wind sang through the songomores the two dancers stared hard into each other’s eyes. Their breath came in gasps, but their eyes remained locked. Then, as one, each leaned to his left, knife raised and claws extended. Few dances lasted to this point; this was a spectacle the villagers would recall for many seasons. With a cry from the hunters, the final dance began.
The final dance was the Dance of Battle. Challenge, nature and the hunt portrayed, now there remained only to dance to death. Each must continue his chosen style, but it now was honorable to strike a killing blow. Talwe saw his opponent spring forward, and he fell to the ground and rolled to his left. But Forun dived at his exposed back before he could rise, and only that familiar, and despised, tingling of danger kept his foe’s knife from slicing his neck. Again Talwe rolled, then he jumped to his feet, turning to watch Forun’s moaning hiss of hatred.
And then Talwe jumped, right at the light-furred dancer. There was no warning. At one moment Talwe was dodging lithely away. At the next he had spun and was driving forward. Forun was fast, but not fast enough. Talwe’s knife opened a deep gash in his biceps, and the blood flowed freely down Forun’s arm, staining his fur. The larger mrem had been surprised, lulled by his opponent’s earlier, graceful passiveness. It had been apparent to all that Talwe could have as easily struck a killing blow. From the side of the fire two hunters ran forward, clutching the wounded mrem and dragging him back. With the wound, it was over. Forun could not continue.
Talwe, as always, had won.
Breathing hard, he sat down beside Ondra. But his friend said nothing.
“I’ve won,” Talwe said.
“I know,” came the reply. “I saw the dance.”
“It was a good one,” Talwe said, nodding. “But it hasn’t solved anything.” It was a statement, not a question, and Ondra didn’t reply.
•
“You are accused of magic, Talwe.”
Talwe heard the shame in Orrintar’s voice as he spoke. The elder feared for the village, caring little for Talwe’s own grief, and such an accusation could haunt the Hunt for years. So often had Talwe heard this explanation that he now knew it by heart. He didn’t quite accept it, but he was powerless to change it.
“I am not justly accused. I won the duel,” Talwe answered. His voice was soft, but it was not afraid.
“Forun tells us,” the elder went on, “that you survived the arbunda’s attack very mysteriously, as if you knew of the attack before it came. And he says as well that you defeated him in the dance-duel because you were able to leap from his knife as if there, too, you knew what was to come. If that is true, Talwe,” and Orrintar’s voice was as sad as it was strong, “then Forun’s accusation is far from unjust. No mrem, no matter how expertly he hunts and dances, is so good that he can avoid all danger.
“We must consider what is best for the village. If we are thought to be tainted, our people will be shunned.” There was concern in his voice.
Talwe closed his eyes. “I do not avoid all danger, Orrintar,” he replied quietly. “I avoid being killed, but that is because of my training.”
From behind him came another voice. Dalriatar, whose light-brown fur had turned gray with age, stood before the old songomore that grew in the middle of the village. Behind him Talwe could see, sitting in a wide circle, the villagemrem who had come to listen and wait.
“Perhaps you are right, Talwe,” Dalriatar said. “But maybe your training is only part of the reason. By all accounts you are an excellent hunter, and I have seen the brilliance of your dance. But Forun has accused you once more, and we have no choice but to act on that accusation.”
Talwe nodded. His tail was curled between his legs. It was all he could do to not expose his neck. He knew the elders had no choice. But he knew, just as clearly, that the accusation could only mean punishment. He could not disprove magic, because he knew it was in him.
He thought back now, as he often did, to the times he had fought as a child, when the others would hate him because he would win. He remembered wondering why he could claw the others, why they didn’t simply jump out of the way. Then one day an older mrem from another village had watched the young ones fight, and as he helped Talwe’s victim daub at his cuts he had shouted, “Magic!” over and over again, until the villagemrem entered the scene and took Talwe away.
All night they questioned him, but Talwe said nothing to help them. Partly he was afraid, but partly he did not answer because there was nothing he could say. He couldn’t tell them he had magic, because he didn’t know what magic was. He only knew that they thought he was different, and this he already knew from the taunting of the other children. When they asked him about his mother he cried and cried and cried.
When she died soon after, these same villagers took him in and loved him. And he forgave them, even loved them, because they were kind.
Now the kindness was gone. All that remained was the love.
Dalriatar cut through his thoughts. “Five times since last Harvest you have dueled, either by dance or by knife, and five times you have won. In each of your victories you have disgraced your opponent, and each time that opponent has exiled himself to the open plain. Even if you have no magic, you have weakened the Hunt in a way that we cannot permit.”
Talwe stared straight ahead. They didn’t have to exile themselves, he wanted to say, but he knew it would gain him nothing. They were right, of course: five hunters had been lost to the cities. No matter whose fault, the village could not survive without hunters.
“You will not hunt with the others, Talwe,” Dalriatar continued, “until you have been explored for magic. We have asked for aid. The Dancer of the Plain will arrive in our village before the Harvest ends. She will ask, and she will know.”
Orrintar opened his eyes wide. Behind Talwe, the villagemrem gasped and whispered among themselves. The Dancer! Talwe thought. But she judges only the strongest sins, only the sins that threaten the village’s life! Was their hatred that strong?
“Until then,” Orrintar broke in, “you will watch the uxen and the cloth beasts in the fields. This is not shameful, for the herds have grown and we need more herders than we have. The liskash of the caves steal from the unguarded pens. Do this job well, Talwe, as you have done all
others. Later you will be judged and all will obey.”
With those words, Talwe’s hope collapsed.
“The Dancer!” whispered the villagemrem, as Talwe strode past them. “The Dancer will be here!” They had seen her before, Talwe knew, but each time her visit had meant more than the last.
“The Dancer!” repeated Forun. “The Dancer is coming. Now we will be rid of this darkfur.”
ONLY TWICE HAD Mithmid been through the gates of the palace, and then he had been allowed only so far as the outer courtyard. Both times he had gone there with Draldren and his daughter Rennilan. Those times he had met so many nobles, all of them well dressed and smiling, that the whole experience seemed only a blur. He remembered following Draldren into the courtyard of a large building just inside the palace gates, where he and Rennilan had listened to poets sing of the great deeds of Arvanash while Draldren conducted business inside the building, but beyond that he didn’t remember a great deal. What he did recall were the torches and lanterns, set close together along the walls and reaching up to the top of the innumerable towers, washing the courtyard in a dancing sea of light. On the palace grounds, Mithmid had come to realize, night came late.
It was late now, but it still wasn’t night. The palace was bustling with activity. Mithmid and Berrilund walked quickly across the outer courtyard and up the ramp toward the inner gates. Much smaller than the palace gates themselves, and minute compared to the immense, ornate gates of the city proper, the inner gates were impressive nonetheless, especially in the torchlight. Flanking them were two columns, each decorated with several etchings of animals. Goats lined the bottom of the columns, cloth beasts and bundor were visible further up. At the top, of course, were the traditional cats, so similar to the mrem that many kept them for amusement. Above the gate, as if on guard, was the huge visage of a long-fanged glacier cat in mid-snarl, its ferocity as intimidating as it was primitively drawn. Mithmid knew immediately that this was the image of Bralittar, the God of the City, the god perhaps of all the world. In reverence he bowed his head, and when he looked up Berrilund was smiling at him.