by J. Thorn
“The chief of the Elk Clan. Bring him to me.”
“It’s Tikal,” Gunney whispered to Jonah. “Remember what we said about fear.”
Jonah couldn’t forget it. He saw panic painted on Solomon and Gunney’s faces.
“I’m here,” Jonah said. “Jonah, son of Judas and Chief of the Elk Clan.”
Camp Creek fell silent as Tikal stepped toward Jonah. “Bout time, mate. We’s got some talking to do.”
Chapter 51
Tikal was a large man, bigger than Judas had been, but he wasn’t much taller than Jonah. The man’s size was in his width. He had a huge barrel chest and arms like tree trunks. His beard was neatly plaited into three different braids, and his hair, dark brown with streaks of grey, was tied back in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back.
He thudded across the clearing, not slowing down, with several of his own clansmen behind him, until he reached the other three clan chiefs.
“It’s true then,” he said, though Jonah thought the words were almost spat at him. “Judas and Nera dead?”
Jonah nodded. “Yes, it’s true. Judas took ill and Nera followed. Though we’re not sure why he died, we suspect he took it upon himself.”
“Foul play is what I’m guessing,” said Tikal, his face almost glowing red. “Did you do it? Top them off so you could take over?” He took a step forward, glaring at Jonah.
“Now, Tikal, you should—” Solomon began, but the other chief didn’t step forward, instead he stopped speaking, cut off as Tikal’s gaze turned upon him.
“I was third!” shouted Tikal. “I was third warrior. The right was mine!” He turned back to Jonah.
“You should watch your words,” Jonah said, surprising even himself. He had never been confronted this way before, and he felt an anger rising in his belly that he had never experienced.
“Or what?” Tikal snapped. “What will you do, whelp? Fight me? Kill me like you killed them? Or did ya poison ’em? Poison my friends?”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Jonah shouted, his nostrils flaring. His instinct urged him to strike out, to hit the man in front of him, but he tried to calm himself. “My father died of illness, and of Nera’s death I do not know.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Tikal said. “And now I will take what’s mine if it isn’t given.”
Solomon, Chief of the Clan of the Valley’s eyes went wide, and Gunney, the chief of the Harpeth, stepped forward, then stopped.
“Tikal,” Gunney snapped. “You go too far, think of your fam—”
Tikal roared, cutting him off mid-speech. “I challenge you, Jonah of the Elk. I, Tikal of the Bluestone, challenge you this day.”
All around people fell silent.
“One hour from now. I challenge you to face me. The winner shall lead the Elk. T’was my right as third warrior, and now it shall be my right again.”
Jonah was stunned. An argument was one thing, but a direct challenge? What did this mean? He would have to fight the man, is what it meant. Was it to the death?
* * *
An hour later, as the sun was slowly setting, the two men faced each other, twenty feet apart, on the dirt ground where the argument had first taken place. Jonah’s mind swam. He had rarely fought other men, and he knew the reputation of the Bluestone chief. The last hour had been chaos, Sasha almost hysterical with fright, his own people hurrying to park their carts and prepare to watch their new leader fight for the leadership of their clan when he was barely a few weeks in charge.
Jonah watched the man opposite him and breathed deeply, trying to remember the things his father, Judas, had taught him.
He remembered standing in the field behind the chief’s hut, where the ground was bare and hard, and he remembered hitting the ground time after time as he tried to strike his father with a stick, and of the pain that came when the stick in his father’s hand struck him.
Speed before strength.
Those were the words Judas had spoken over and over, punishing him each time he failed to strike, with a whack on the back from the stick as Jonah tumbled into the dirt.
Look for the weakness before the fight even begins.
But the huge man in front Jonah now was a mound of muscle, and the axe he carried was half again the size of Jonah’s axe—his father’s axe. The blade of the axe that Tikal carried was thick and heavy.
If that thing hits you once it will all be over.
Speed before strength. Find the weakness.
And what else had Judas tried to tell him? Jonah’s mind scrambled to recall the lessons that Judas had drilled into him years ago, when he was but a boy. Over and over, one sharp smack of the stick after the next.
Move fast, strike, and move away.
And it didn’t work no matter how many times you tried it, he remembered. Judas was always moving away. You always missed him and landed on your ass.
Except for once. It had worked once, hadn’t it? You struck Judas once, and that was the last time he gave you lessons, the last time he hit you with that stick. You managed to follow all of the things he was saying, chanting them over and over, and you ran forward, and Judas moved aside, and so did you, as his stick came down, and you hit him...
Tikal roared and hefted his axe. Around them, cries came from some of the bystanders, the spectators. Jonah could feel the tension, wound so tightly he thought his own neck would snap. He knew that Sasha would be watching, her eyes wide with terror at the thought of watching her husband die. And his own children were watching too. They had to; there was no other way.
Tikal lifted the axe to his shoulders and started forward, trudging across the dirt, bellowing so loudly and furiously that most men facing him would have pissed their pants and fled, but Jonah wasn’t even there in the glade. He was miles away, at the back of the chief’s hut in their village, with Judas bearing over him, the stick swinging to hit.
And he had moved quickly, first thinking just to avoid the stick, but then seeing the opening as it appeared. He was past Judas, hearing the whip of the stick as it snapped at the air where he had just been. And Judas was spinning, his eyes just a second behind his hand and the stick that would still strike him if he did not move.
There, in the memories of his past, he relived it once more, that one time he had beaten his father. Jonah was spinning on his heels, turning in toward his father, rather than running away, his own stick swinging through the air and striking Judas...
...in the back.
Jonah’s focus snapped back to the present, and he watched, stunned, as Tikal fell forward. The man was past him by half a dozen feet and Jonah realized that it was he that was moving, not Tikal. He stopped and watched, just as surprised as the three hundred spectators, as the massive bulk of the Bluestone chief stumbled forward, wavered, and then fell to the ground with a loud thump.
Jonah’s own axe stuck out from between Tikal’s shoulder blades, buried so deep that hardly any of the axe head could be seen.
Jonah breathed deeply, calming the beating of his heart, and walked over to Tikal. He reached down and pulled the axe from the man’s back with an audible crack. Tikal shuddered, and then struggled, pushing himself over, trying to look up at Jonah. Finally, he rolled and looked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise as blood flooded from his mouth.
Then Jonah saw the man reaching for his axe, lying a few feet away, and for a moment he was startled to think that Tikal may still try to fight him. But Tikal burbled a few words in between gouts of blood. “My axe...please.”
Of course, thought Jonah. To die with your weapon in your hand was the highest of honors. Jonah walked over to the axe, picked it up, and then walked back to place it in Tikal’s hands. The dying man grasped it tightly and sighed heavily.
“Oh, my son, my wife, I’m sorry for what you now face,” the dying man muttered. Then the angry glimmer in Tikal’s eyes went out and the last breath left his body.
Chapter 52
“You know the tradition?” Sol
omon asked as he stood over Jonah. Jonah was now seated under a tree a hundred yards from the body of the Bluestone chief. The body remained where it had fallen, and where it would stay until Jonah decided what to do with it. Such was the way.
“What tradition?” asked Jonah.
“Well. The Bluestone...” said Solomon. “Their fate, now.”
Jonah frowned and took another deep breath. Ten minutes after the fight and his heart was still not calm. He had finally been left alone by Sasha, who had clung to him with tears of joy streaming down her face. It had taken two of his warriors to guide her away and leave him be.
Gunney approached them, walking across the glade. Jonah noticed that most of the Bluestone clan were now grouped on the dirt where the battle had taken place, and he hadn’t realized how many of them there were. Thirty, maybe; eight men that he could count, a dozen women, and the rest children.
“It is traditional for the clan to be put down after such a slight by their leader,” said Solomon. “The children also, or enslaved.”
Jonah all but reeled from the shock of the man’s words, and Solomon flinched. “That is what he meant, then,” he said.
“What?” asked Gunney.
“As he died,” continued Jonah. “He was saying sorry to his wife and son for what they now faced.”
“Tis the way,” said Solomon. “That is why they wait over there.”
“What do you mean, they wait?” asked Jonah.
“They await your verdict,” Gunney said as he arrived. “I’ve just asked Tikal’s oldest boy, Declan, if they will flee and become an unnamed clan, and he says they won’t. He asks that you spare the women and children.”
“He’s barely a boy himself,” said Jonah. Then he looked up. “Whose way is it that demands this?” he asked.
“Your father’s way, and those of the other clans,” said Gunney. “It is always the way when a leader challenges another. The leadership and fate of both clans lie with the winner, and the losing clan is traditionally disbanded, usually slaughtered.”
“Which one is Declan?” Jonah asked, looking up and down the line before realizing that none of the gathered clan were armed, and that two warriors from Solomon’s clan guarded a pile of weapons nearby.
Gunney turned and nodded toward the gathered people. “The young one at the front. Maybe fifteen summers old. He is the eldest. The one with the long brown locks tied back.”
Jonah searched and found the shocked looking figure at the front of the group.
He’s barely a man, still a boy, he thought, and then thought of his own son, and of the other young people in his Clan. Seren, Roke and others. But the Bluestone were gaunt and thin, and it occurred to Jonah that the only one in the entire Bluestone clan that had been well built, and well fed, was now lying dead on the dirt.
“My verdict?”
“Yes,” said Solomon. “You, as victor, and as the target of the insult of honor by their chief, now have the right to judge their fate. The tradition is for you to kill the chief’s eldest before the rest are slaughtered or enslaved.”
Jonah struggled to his feet and looked once more at Declan. The boy was standing motionless and expressionless. He’s awaiting his death, thought Jonah. Standing there, just waiting for me to kill him. Because they can’t run. Where would they go? Only to die in the wilderness without their weapons. They are shamed by Tikal, it seems. So they wouldn’t be able to show their faces at Eliz.
Jonah picked up his axe.
Let’s get this over with, he thought.
* * *
Seren watched as Jonah crossed the clearing. She’d been watching the Bluestone people, stripped of their weapons after the fight. And she'd watched as they stood there, some of them tearful and frightened.
And she had heard the conversation between the chiefs.
This can’t happen, she thought. He can’t just kill them. It’s wrong.
But Jonah paced across the open ground, axe in hand, toward the eldest son of Tikal, who now stepped forward and looked up, expressionless still. But she could see the fear behind those eyes, and she could see his hands trembling.
* * *
Jonah stopped in front of the boy and felt a presence behind him. The two other chiefs, Solomon and Gunney, had followed him, and they would now follow his lead to deal with the issue of the Bluestone.
“Your name is Declan?” asked Jonah.
The boy nodded. “Yes.”
“And you are son of Tikal?” asked Jonah.
“I am,” said the boy.
“And you take responsibility for your clan now?”
The boy’s face turned even more pale, and he swallowed, but he didn’t falter. “Yes,” Declan said.
So brave, thought Jonah, and such a waste if he should die for his father’s stupidity.
“Tradition says I’m to kill you, Declan,” Jonah said. “For the insult your father placed upon me.”
“Yes,” said Declan, though Jonah thought the words barely came. The boy’s lips were trembling now, and Jonah thought that he would not be able to keep calm for much longer.
And tradition says I have to kill this boy, thought Jonah. Just a boy, and I must slaughter him. But whose tradition? More of my father’s ways? Judas would already have killed the boy.
But I am chief now.
“A stupid tradition, don’t you think?” Jonah asked.
Declan didn’t answer, and he looked confused.
“What a waste of a young life, if I kill you. But if I were to offer you, and every member of the Bluestone, a place in my clan, the Elk, would you follow me?” asked Jonah. “Would you be Elk? The Bluestone would be no more, and you would be of my kin. Could you forget any anger that you may have and be our brothers? You are not your father.”
The change in the boy’s expression was instant; from complete despair to a shivering mask of hope. Jonah thought that if he waited a moment longer the boy could collapse and beg him to let it be so, but he would not let Declan appear weak when the boy had stayed so strong until this moment.
“Will you swear to follow me, and stand by my side, and not blame me for the death of your father?”
Declan stepped forward, almost stumbling, and placed both hands over his chest, a sign of agreement. “I would follow you without a doubt,” the boy said, though his voice wavered, trembled.
“I did not wish your father dead when I came here,” said Jonah, and now he turned to look at the others. “I did not want any of this. If we, the north forest clans, cannot stand with each other, how will we fare when we deal with The Five Clans in Wytheville? Or the hundreds of clans that will be at Eliz?”
No one answered.
“My verdict is that every member of the Bluestone clan is welcome to join the Elk, and not as slaves, but as my people. Those who do not wish to will be allowed to go their own way with no harm to them.”
Then he turned to Declan.
“Do you agree to become Elk, Declan of the Bluestone?”
Declan slammed his fist to his chest once more. “I, Declan, once of the Bluestone, who are now gone forever, am now of the Elk if you will have me.”
“I will, and all your kin,” said Jonah.
Chapter 53
Sasha kneeled at the edge of the river and stared into the water. Deep below the surface she saw movement, but what kind she wasn’t sure. There were no fish in this river, that much she already knew, but something lived in it.
“We’ll hear them regardless,” said Gideon. The boy was standing on one of the rocks twenty feet away. “When they kill them.”
Sasha said nothing.
“Quiet,” said Keana. “You should know when to speak and when not to.”
“I do know when, and I was just saying,” said Gideon. “Whether we are down here or up there, we’re not far enough away. You don’t want to watch them be killed, but you’ll still hear them.”
Sasha was still silent, going back to the movement in the water. As she watched, trying
to ignore the approaching time when, as Gideon had rightly pointed out, she would hear the cries of the Bluestone Clan as they were slaughtered. Why was it taking so long? It should all be over by now.
By my husband, she thought. And how will he deal with having to kill an entire clan? Women, children. They would all die. Stupid traditions.
Then Sasha frowned, seeing that the movement in the water had stopped. Whatever it was had chosen to hide in the depths.
“And that cloud over there is getting darker,” said Gideon.
Sasha stood, relieved that her son had changed the subject. She looked up to the sky, toward the dark front on the horizon, and felt her heart jump just as the first of the telltale light breezes washed over the three of them.
Footsteps on the rocks tore them from the storm in the distance, and the three spun around quickly to face whoever approached.
Seren dropped deftly down into the hollow, landing in the thick sand with her bow, as always, in hand. She’d tied her hair back for once, and Sasha smiled. Whenever there was a funeral in the clan, it was traditional to tie one’s hair back. Let the dust from the fire wash into the sky and not be trapped, was that the saying? Or it was something else like that? She was sure it was much more poetic, but the words were lost to her.
How old was Seren now? Fifteen? Younger than her own daughter by nearly a year, but still closer to being a woman than Keana was, both in mind and in body, even though Keana would become of age this summer.
“It’s over,” Seren said.
Sasha frowned. “What?”
Seren gulped air. She’d run the quarter mile down the hill to them, that much was obvious to Sasha. The girl didn’t answer for a moment, but bent over, trying to regain her breath.
“Jonah took them in,” Seren said finally, but she’d hurried down the hill with the news in such a rush that she had winded herself.
“What do you mean, he took them in?” asked Gideon. The boy was excited now, his voice rising, demanding to know, but Sasha raised her hand to silence him