FOR GIDEON, THE next two days and nights passed in a kind of nightmarish blur. He saw little of Garza, who spent most of his time in their tent, resting and—Gideon assumed—mentally preparing himself for the ordeal to come. He was clearly not in the mood for conversation and had barely said a word to either Gideon or Imogen.
Gideon felt an odd, desperate hopelessness. The way the villagers and even the chief acted—going about their business as usual, treating the three newcomers as if nothing had changed, as if his friend wasn’t about to live or die in combat—was unnerving. He’d racked his brain for a way out but had come up with nothing: they had yet to put together a detailed plan of escape, and he could not challenge the chief’s edict without all three of them putting their lives at risk. At his urging, Imogen had approached the crone, asking as diplomatically as she could if there wasn’t some other way this could be resolved, but the answer was ironclad: it was ritual, it was custom. Nothing could be done.
And so it was early on the morning of the third day that Gideon, along with Imogen and the silent Garza, stepped out of their tent to find the four white-bearded priests standing there, waiting for them. Behind the priests stood several guards. The priests began leading the way toward the far end of the valley, and the three followed. The guards swung into place behind and, over his shoulder, Gideon could see the rest of the tribe following. The guards were all armed with spears, their faces expressionless. The culture shock was almost beyond Gideon’s ability to parse: despite all they’d accomplished—in particular, despite Garza’s improving work efficiency dramatically and saving the chief’s daughter—it almost felt like the very first day again, when they’d been led to the pit of headless bodies. Ironically, this time around nobody except Blackbeard and a few of his henchmen bore them any ill will: Garza’s fate was simply out of their hands and into those of the gods.
The priests led the long procession along a winding path, through the Home of the Dead, and then in a direction Gideon had not gone before. After marching perhaps another quarter mile, they made their way through a slot canyon into a bowl-like depression, surrounded on all sides by rock. Gideon looked around. The spot looked more like a small gladiatorial arena than anything else. The stony floor was littered with animal corpses in various stages of decay. There were human remains, as well, lying scattered here and there among the litter of boulders and sharp stones. Gideon didn’t need a translation to understand the nature of this place—he could guess for himself. It was a place of combat; a place for the settling of differences—and, perhaps, for savage amusements as well.
The tribespeople fanned out around the circular edge of the bowl, their faces shining with anticipation. Gideon and Imogen were led to a rickety canopy, built of poles topped with sticks that were in turn overlain with palm leaves. It was apparently a place of honor, next to the chief, his daughter Jelena, the crone, and the four priests. The men with spears now took up positions on both sides of the structure, like an honor guard. The rest of the onlookers stood in the bright morning sun.
Garza and Mugdol were escorted to the center of the arena by two warriors. The crone Lillaya stepped forward and began another wailing chant, which echoed off the surrounding peaks. After several minutes, the chanting stopped and the chief himself stepped forward. Speaking in a raspy voice, he went on for what seemed to Gideon like ages, gesturing at both Garza and Mugdol in turn. At last, clearly exhausted by his speech, the chief returned to the makeshift canopy. Blackbeard removed his robe, exposing a bronzed physique. The crowd cheered as he strode around, flexing his muscles, primarily it seemed for Jelena’s benefit. The two warriors gestured at Garza and he reluctantly removed his own robes, exposing a pale torso. Gideon’s heart sank. Garza was pretty damn fit, well muscled and tough, but next to Blackbeard—a six-foot-six ripped monster at least a dozen years younger—the contrast was still extreme.
The combatants removed their headcloths and they were placed to one side, along with their robes. A silence fell and the audience parted as four more warriors came through, carrying a pallet on which were laid out an array of weapons. Gideon squinted. He could see variously shaped spears, bronze daggers, and even a few stone blades and hatchets, along with an open wooden box holding the giant, technologically advanced steel blade Mugdol had wielded earlier. Clearly the tribe had not fashioned it, Gideon reflected; it must have been taken off the dead body of some luckless trespasser. Blackbeard immediately seized the sword, eliciting a roar from the crowd as he again paraded around, swishing the sword through the air in various fancy moves.
Garza stared at the rather pathetic arrangement of remaining weapons. He scowled.
“This is unfair,” he said loudly. “None of these weapons are equal to that sword!”
Lillaya the crone acted again as translator. “The Father say you must choose one.”
“I’ll choose that crossbow we made for him, thank you.”
More translation and discussion. “The Father say crossbow not traditional.” The old woman gestured. “You take one.”
“That’s unfair. I refuse.”
When this was translated it caused an ugly stir in the crowd. To Gideon it seemed sentiment was already swinging against Garza.
“The Father say fight. Or die.”
Garza stared at her in disbelief. Instinctively, Gideon stepped forward to intervene, but Imogen restrained him. “Don’t,” she murmured. “Or you’ll be the next one in that ring.”
“But he’s going to get killed!”
“You know these people. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Christ, that’s cold. After he saved the chief’s daughter?”
“We have no choice but to let it play out.”
Gideon watched as Garza picked up a spear, hefted it. It was a sad-looking thing, with a wooden shaft and spearpoint and tail of hammered bronze. After a brief examination of the weapon, Garza shrugged and nodded, and the warriors carried the pallet of weapons off the field.
Watching, Gideon had to admire Garza’s pluck. For all his complaining, when push came to shove he was still the bravest man Gideon had ever met.
Now two additional warriors—evidently referees of some sort—took both contestants by the shoulders and walked them to opposite sides of the dirt arena. A roar rose from the waiting crowd.
“I can’t watch this,” said Gideon.
The referees walked to the edge of the fighting ground and planted their spears. The chief gave a shout that was evidently the signal to begin.
Blackbeard immediately came forward, sword extended laterally. Garza, tense, circled him, holding the spear defensively before him.
Mugdol casually walked closer while Garza backed up, then took a desultory swing that Garza parried. He took another swing, insolently slow, and Garza jumped back. There was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd.
At least he’s quick, thought Gideon, heart in his throat.
Now Mugdol lunged with the sword, and Garza scrambled backward, this time just missing being gutted and almost losing his balance. This was more to the crowd’s liking. Garza danced backward as Mugdol continued to stride forward, sword now low and to the side, and then he swung again at high speed, the weapon hissing through the air. Garza tried to parry, but the sword made contact with the bronze end of the spear and knocked it to one side. Before Garza could fully recover, Mugdol came lunging in again and his sword, slashing the air, nicked Garza’s right forearm, raising a small mist of red.
Another roar came up from the crowd at this first sight of blood.
Garza skipped out of range and cocked the spear, bringing it above his shoulder. At this, Mugdol tensed and began moving more cautiously, sword held out in both hands.
They circled each other and then, with sudden force, Garza launched his spear.
Blackbeard’s sword flashed down and, with a great cracking sound, swatted the spear away. It flew off into the dirt, cut in half through its wooden shank.
Another great roar from the crowd.
Now Garza scrambled backward, looking left and right as if for a route of escape. The crowd was in a fever of excitement. He retreated behind a small boulder, then picked up one of the smaller rocks that were scattered around. Blood was streaming from the nick on his left arm.
Mugdol strode confidently forward, a relaxed look again on his face. He was in no hurry, evidently planning to enjoy the kill. Gideon wanted to turn away but somehow was unable to force himself.
Garza threw the rock hard, but Blackbeard dodged it. This was followed by another, also dodged. There were jeers and catcalls from the crowd.
Now, picking up a smooth round stone, Garza retreated farther, to the edge of the fighting ground, where their robes and headcloths lay draped on a boulder. Garza snatched up his headcloth and shook it out into a long strip of fabric as he continued to retreat, while Mugdol came at him at a slow walk, relishing the sport. Fumbling with the headcloth, Garza folded it around the rock, then swung it up, stone cradled in the middle, gave it a whirl—and then released one end, letting the rock fly.
It went wild, missing Mugdol by at least twenty feet—but it moved fast, much faster than if Garza had thrown it. Mugdol paused, gave a mocking grin, and marched on.
Still retreating in a circular motion around the edge of the arena, Garza picked up some more smooth stones, holstered one in the cloth, whipped it around in an underhand motion, and launched it. This time, his aim was better and the rock whizzed past Blackbeard, missing him by inches.
The crowd loved it. They began to cheer, a sort of high keening sound, and Gideon had the impression they were growing beguiled by Garza and his spunk.
At least, that’s how Mugdol took it. He scowled and, instead of continuing his leisurely chase, gave a roar of displeasure and charged, sword raised—just as Garza whirled the improvised sling again and released another stone.
Mugdol’s charge was precisely the wrong strategy. Almost on top of Garza, he was so close that aim was no longer a factor and, with a sickening sound, the rock violently impacted his skull directly between the eyes. The huge figure stopped, swayed, then fell to the ground with a shuddering thump, sword flying. The high keening increased to a wail, led by Lillaya.
Garza leapt forward and seized the sword. A roar went up as he walked over to the unconscious body of his opponent. Planting his feet on either side of Mugdol’s chest, Garza raised the sword in both hands and turned it point down, preparing to plunge it into his opponent’s heart.
A hush suddenly fell over the crowd.
And then Garza hesitated.
The hush grew tense as the hesitation lengthened. Finally, Garza lowered the sword. “I can’t kill a man who’s down,” he said simply.
Lillaya translated this and the hush turned to a dead silence—a silence, it seemed to Gideon, of disapproval. Garza then held up the sword and turned to the crone. “Tell everyone I’m keeping this. It’s mine now and no one—no one—is to touch it.”
When these words were translated, it was as if a dam broke. This, finally, was the right move. The crowd cheered, screamed, and stamped their feet, while Mugdol lay on the ground, moaning and thrashing feebly as consciousness returned. He struggled on the dirt, eyes rolling in his head, blood streaming from a deep gash between his eyes.
The crowd rushed into the fighting ground like fans after a game, reaching out noisily to touch Garza almost as if he were some kind of deity. His arm was now coated in blood from the sword wound. The gashes from the leopard were still healing, and he looked as if he might collapse at any moment.
“Get me out of here,” he murmured as Gideon pushed his way up to him.
With a shout, Gideon raised his arm and, supporting Garza with the other, led his friend through the parting crowd, the sword of triumph held tightly in Garza’s bloody fist.