Bose rose to his feet, feeling all eyes on him. Now he fully understood Ironclaw’s game. Sensing he wouldn’t win enough votes during the leadership contest, he was looking to goad Bose to agree to the blood challenge or risk looking weak.
“Crowface,” Bose said, “the tribe thanks you for your guidance. You speak wisely of the blood challenge and why it has not been invoked these past ten years. The challenge leads to the certain death of at least one of the tribe’s strongest warriors, perhaps two, and that is not a good thing.”
Bose gazed around the circle of warriors, every face tilted up and staring at him. “Do you all remember the oath we swore when we joined this tribe? To live our lives bravely, to die even braver. We are a warrior chapter. The tribe must have a chief whose bravery is beyond dispute. There must not be a single shred of doubt he fears death in any way. So I call on everyone here now to pass the vote for the blood challenge, a challenge which I proudly accept.”
He faced Ironclaw, who stared at him with grim satisfaction. “If one of us is to survive tonight, the Black Eagles will have its first blood chief.”
Chapter 18
The night had grown colder. A stiff breeze drove through Cloud Valley where the Black Eagles sat hunched around the dying embers of the fire pit. Behind them, a few feet away, Sureshot’s funeral pyre was no more than a heap of charred wood and ashes. All focus now was on who would succeed as next chief of the tribe.
The vote had been taken, forty-one warriors voting in favor of Ironclaw’s blood challenge. Bose had made sure of it, walking around the circle and forcing every brave to raise their arm. A certain amount of warriors, those allied with Ironclaw, required no prompting.
Surprisingly, Roja had kept her hand down and he had to raise it for her, though she had turned her face away as he had done so. Only Daniella had resolutely refused to allow him to lift up her arm, her honey-colored eyes watering as she stared up at him anxiously.
When he returned to his place, Clement gazed across at him. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice as Bose sat down. “I wish I could have done something. I didn’t see that coming.”
Bose shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let you,” he said. “This is a warrior chapter. This is what we do.”
In front of him, a young brave was stacking more wood in the fire pit. He splashed kerosene over it, lit a match, and it ignited in a whoosh of flames. Three women had gone up to the camp. They returned with lanterns, carrying them down to the riverbank, one in each hand. Lighting them, they placed them in a large circle beside the fire pit.
Despite his feelings about it, as a neutral and respected tribe member Crowface was appointed to officiate the duel. He gestured for Bose and Ironclaw to approach him in the center. The two combatants stood up and faced each other in the makeshift arena, the glow from the lanterns illuminating their faces as they stared at each other, while the rest of the tribe stood in a circle behind the lanterns.
Crowface turned first to Bose with his hand outstretched. “Your knife.”
Bose took his knife out of its sheath and handed it to Crowface, who quickly inspected it. After making sure he had no other weapon on him, he handed it back to him, then turned to Ironclaw and went through the same routine.
Bose took off his leather jacket and wrapped it carefully around his left forearm, clenching one end in his hand to stop it unraveling. Across from him, Ironclaw was doing likewise. It was the only protection either would have to defend themselves against the sharp steel of each other’s blades.
“Are you both ready?” Crowface asked.
“Ready,” Ironclaw said, holding his knife up high above his head in an icepick grip. His face had contorted into a ferocious scowl, and Bose could sense the violent intent pent up inside him.
Keeping his hips square, Bose put his right foot forward and raised his protected arm up to chest height, holding his knife in his right hand down low by his waist. “Ready,” he said, without taking his eyes off his opponent.
“There is no greater honor than to live our lives bravely, to die even braver,” Crowface proclaimed to the watching crowd of warriors, echoing the motto of the tribe. Standing between the two, with an arm outstretched at each man’s chest, Crowface brought his hands together with a loud clap. “Let the blood challenge begin!” he yelled, and stepped back.
The two men circled each other warily. While Bose had the advantage of height and reach, Ironclaw’s muscular and stocky body had a lower center of gravity which, when combined with his speed and agility, made him a fearsome warrior.
It was Ironclaw who made the first move. After a couple of initial feints, he stepped in on his right foot, making a downward slashing motion with his knife. Pulling his left arm away, Bose took a step back, easily avoiding the blade as it slashed by him in a vicious arc. Moving quickly, he stepped forward and jabbed his knife toward Ironclaw’s torso, missing it by a couple of inches. He stepped back into his defensive posture, crouching slightly, yet still towering over his opponent.
The two men continued to probe each other’s defenses, each stepping sideways both left and right, trying to find an opening. Still gripping his knife icepick style, Ironclaw stepped in again and tried to catch Bose in the ribs with a sideways stroke. As Bose jumped back, Ironclaw closed in with a couple of quick steps, thrusting his knife toward Bose's chest. With no time to move out of the way, Bose parried with his left arm. The tip of the knife pierced through his jacket and he felt a stab of pain above his elbow.
Ironclaw had drawn first blood. He gazed at Bose, a grim smile on his face, the flickering light from the kerosene lanterns catching the intensity in his eyes.
The two circled each other once more, Ironclaw aggressively trying to control the center ground between the two men. Bose stepped sideways or backward each time to open up the space again. When Ironclaw moved in once more, extending farther than the previous times as he tried to get within striking distance, instead of moving away Bose stepped in fast, smashing the edge of his palm down hard on Ironclaw’s knife hand, just above his wrist. He immediately took another half step forward and swung his knife fast in an upward motion, twisting his body for maximum reach, and drove his knife under Ironclaw’s left armpit, the blade penetrating deep into the flesh.
The expression on Ironclaw's face fiercened, but showed no sign he was in pain. A dark patch began to spread rapidly on the left side of Ironclaw’s shirt, and Bose realized he had opened up his opponent’s axillary artery. Soon the whole side of his shirt was drenched in blood. All Bose had to do was to keep his distance for the next few minutes, and the loss of blood would soon take its effect.
Ironclaw knew it too. Scowling, the warrior unwrapped his jacket from around his forearm and gripped it by the collar. Sweeping the jacket across Bose’s face, he made a couple of attempts to get in closer. Each time Bose parried or stepped back, managing to keep inches away from the arc of his blade.
Bose could see Ironclaw was tiring, the loss of blood starting to take its toll. He changed his knife position to a classic grip, then stepped in once more, made a feint with the knife. Turning his hips, he flung his jacket at Bose’s face. The move caught Bose by surprise. Though only blocking his view for a moment, Ironclaw rushed him and, with a sideways stabbing motion, swung the knife low, plunging it into Bose’s side.
At the same moment the cold steel of the blade penetrated his abdomen, Bose instinctively swung his knife up from his waist, driving it deep under Ironclaw’s exposed ribcage, the blade reaching all the way up to the hilt. Ironclaw’s body sagged as the two warriors stumbled into each other’s arms, each with a knife in the other’s body.
Bose twisted his knife upward, and saw the ferocious glare recede from Ironclaw’s eyes. His blade had penetrated his opponent’s heart. With his own knife still pressed deep into Bose’s side, Ironclaw slid slowly onto his knees.
Bose grabbed Ironclaw’s knife hand by the wrist, carefully inched the long metal blade from his side, and felt a
warm river of blood gush down his leg. He pried the handle out of Ironclaw’s stubborn grip, then gave him a push. As if in slow motion, the warrior fell backwards, knees twisting to one side and arms spread open when he hit the ground. It was over. Like most knife fights, the contest hadn’t taken more than a few minutes.
Bose staggered to his knees, wincing at the tremendous pain in his side. Lying on the ground, the dying warrior motioned to him weakly, managing to raise an arm off the ground. Bose leaned in closer.
“Finish it…” Ironclaw whispered hoarsely, his voice completely empty of any tone.
Kneeling to one side of the warrior, gripping his knife in both hands, Bose raised it high in the air. Ironclaw watched it all the way as the knife swept down and plunged into his chest. He let out one final gasp, and the light faded from his eyes. Then his head rolled over to one side and, with dead vacant eyes, fixed his stare at the group of open-mouthed warriors.
Swaying badly, Bose rose to his feet. Chico rushed in, and Clement anxiously called out to the tribe’s doctor, a woman brave, who came running over with her medicine bag. She examined Bose’s injury while Chico held his torch pointed at the wound.
“It’s deep,” she said to Clement after examining it. “But no organ’s been damaged. I’ll have to clean it, then stitch it up.”
A look of relief flooded over Clement’s face and he broke out into a big smile. He put his hand on Bose’s shoulder, and turned to the watching crowd.
“Fellow braves, you are looking at the first ever Blood Chief of our tribe. No one before has survived the blood challenge.” Then he turned dramatically to Bose. “Now I ask you again, as chief of the Black Eagles, by what name will you call yourself?”
Standing over the body of Ironclaw, Bose raised his bloodied knife and, breathing heavily, addressed the group of braves. “Tonight, I have proved myself worthy to be chief of this tribe. From this day on, I will be known as Stalking Bear, and will wear the colors of a Blood Chief so that no one forgets that this was a title won in honor, by the death of a brave warrior.”
Holding the bandage the doctor had placed over his wound to stem the bleeding, and supported on either side by Clement and Chico, Bose turned and headed back up to the camp. Around the circle, the men and women of the Black Eagles warrior chapter raised their arms and toasted the name of their new chief.
Chapter 19
Barrio T, Winter’s Edge, Outzone
On a clear, early fall morning, a bright sun rising high above the Barrio de Los Triguenos’ eastern wall, Brogan and Staunton stepped out of the Hotel Valiente. The day was deceptively cold, and the two breathed ice-cool air into their lungs as they wove their way through a maze of back streets.
In a few minutes they reached 4th Street, where they cut onto the tiny, Calle Perro Bravo, passing Rosalinda’s Eatery where they had lunched the previous day, then turned again onto an even narrower lane. At the end was a low stone archway where they had to duck their heads as they emerged onto Guerrero Avenue before heading west, toward La Decima—10th Street. After a few days in the city, the two had gotten to know their way around the place.
Standing outside the Barrio T’s west wall, at the corner of 10th and Chilton, they waited a few minutes before flagging down a passing colectivo, with “Valle Oeste” scrawled in thick black marker on a card placed inside the windscreen. The colectivos were customized vans with a long metal bench fitted lengthways along either side of the vehicle, and passengers entered and alighted via an open rear door.
The van was only half full, and after clambering inside the two sat opposite each other. Brogan fished out some coins from his pocket, leaned forward, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Dos, amigo,” he said, raising two fingers in the driver’s mirror as he handed him the money. He checked his watch. It was nine forty-five a.m. That gave them well over an hour to get to their destination. The two men were on their way to Sunbright Farm, a permaculture farming community in the West Valley that their new friend, a man known as Carter, had arranged for them to visit.
A couple of days before, Brogan had his talk with the Hallecks where the three had gone through the women’s options. Back in the State, Karen Halleck’s husband had been a mechanic, and his plan had been to set up a transport business in the city. Winter’s Edge was still growing, and there was room to develop new routes.
Now that option was off the table, Brogan went through several other possibilities with them. The women had enough money to set up a good business, perhaps a restaurant or a boarding house. The idea of running a boarding house got some consideration. The two felt this was something that would suit them.
After running through a few further options, Brogan brought up the notion of perhaps buying a farm somewhere outside the city. The idea immediately appealed to them. The mother and daughter looked at each other, their eyes widening with excitement as they discussed it further. For the first time since arriving in the city, Brogan saw something in them resembling hope. It was a good sign, and he promised he’d look into it right away.
Things moved fast. In Che’s, a coffee shop on 3rd, Staunton got talking to a man named Carter who had connections with the farming communities of the West Valley. The following evening, Staunton brought Brogan down to the cafe to discuss it further.
When they arrived, Che’s was humming with activity. Cuban salsa played over the sound system as a lively crowd sat hunched over tables in animated conversations, smoking and drinking coffee.
The scene reminded Brogan of a strange version of one of those pre-century movies he’d seen years ago, in which idealists, anarchists, and revolutionaries feverishly hatched up their plans for a new society. There were long-haired Latinos, gringos with beards and berets, Afro-Outzoners wearing bandanas and Raiders caps, punks with dyed hair and ripped up jeans, and in one corner a group of heavily-tattooed bikers decked out in leather waistcoats and motorcycle jackets stared across the room, a combination of scars and scowls on their faces.
Back in the State, people like that wouldn’t make it ten yards without being picked up by a police cruiser. Back in the State, people like that no longer existed.
Staunton spotted his contact at the far side of the room, and took Brogan over to a table where a young man wearing a dark wool sweater with holes in the elbows sat alone, sipping a cup of tea, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray in front of him. He sat next to a table where two men played a game of chess, their heads down, elbows up, both studying the board in earnest concentration.
Brogan studied Carter as Staunton greeted him. Long-legged and skinny, he was in his late twenties with short, sandy hair that hadn’t been washed in a while. His face was boyish and angular, which at that moment was friendly, yet appeared somewhat mischievous.
While Staunton introduced the two, Brogan noticed Carter had a snake’s head tattooed on the back of his hand, its fangs bared, and he wondered idly how far up his forearm the snake’s body ran.
Staunton put a hand on Brogan’s shoulder. “Frank, how about you two get up to speed while I go get us some coffees?” He headed up toward the counter and Brogan sat down at the table.
“That’s a solid dude,” Carter said, watching Staunton stride across the crowded room. “Were you two friends back in the State?”
Carter spoke in a lazy drawl. Brogan guessed he might originally have come from the West Coast, perhaps San Francisco or Portland. He had that slacker thing going that the old state never quite managed to stamp out over there.
“No. We met at the terminal,” Brogan replied. “And yeah, Dan’s as solid as they come.”
“Cool. He tells me you’re interested in buying farmland?” Carter looked over at Brogan questioningly.
“Yes, not for us personally. We’re helping out a friend. Somebody new here to the city.”
“So he said. But you’re new here too, right?”
Brogan smiled. “That’s right.”
“Dan says if he finds a good deal, maybe he’ll buy a plot too
,” Carter continued. “How about you…that interest you at all?”
Brogan knew that his new acquaintance was hustling for business. Staunton had told him Carter had been open about the fact that he would get a commission from the vendor if he found them a buyer. That was fine with Brogan. Everyone had to make a living.
He shook his head. “Not right now. Maybe sometime in the future.”
Carter nodded, reflecting on this.
Brogan looked around the room, and stared at the bikers in the corner. There was something he was curious to know.
“Carter, let me ask you something. You carry a piece, right?”
“Sure. An old service pistol I bought here. I keep it in a rig inside my jacket,” Carter said, gesturing to a worn brown leather jacket hanging at the back of his chair. He tapped behind his shoulder with a finger. “I keep something back here too, just in case.”
“What you got there?”
“Just a knife, but I throw it pretty good.” With his hand, Carter sliced the air in front of him, imitating the arc of a knife throw. “You got to be careful around these parts. There’s plenty of hold-up artists ready to get you when you’re not paying attention.”
Brogan thought about telling him about his recent experience on Quebra Calle, but thought better of it. It wasn’t so much how he’d run into trouble he had a problem with talking about, but rather the skills he’d used in getting out of it. Since then, he’d been a lot more wary moving around the city, especially when alone.
“No kidding,” he said. “No such thing as too careful around here.”
Carter nodded. “Most of them know me by now, so they don’t fuck with me. They know it’ll bring some heavy shit down on them if they do. I got people that’ll see to that.”
Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) Page 13