Asunder: A Gathering of Chaos by Cameron Hopkin (electronic book reader .txt) 📗

red salve to his ribs, and Kest bore the searing heat of the cleansing jelly in silence. “He said something about not trusting a man you’d never fought, which might just be the biggest pile of spoor I’ve ever smelled.” The black-clad stranger hit Pul in the face, and the stinging slap of flesh on flesh echoed through the clearing. The chief staggered and shook it off, blood dribbling from his nose and smearing across his bare chest. “I asked Pul to wait for you – I knew you’d be upset if no one was waiting – but the man had already drunk of our water, and you know Pul will always do things the right way. ‘Honor to the tribe before honor to the one,’ is how he said it.” It was one of the chief’s favorite things to say.

“So the honor of a stranger means more than mine does,” Kest muttered bitterly. His mother frowned and jabbed a thumb into his ribs near one of his wounds, and he jumped, giving her a guilty glance.

“He was right, son, and you know it.” Kest grimaced and nodded, and she rubbed his shoulder. “You will have your day, Kestrigan. You will have many days in the sun. If you cannot give up one of them in favor of someone else, then perhaps you are not so special as the crones all say, hmm?”

He stared at the fight and did not respond. She was right, of course. She usually was, and when he resisted her wisdom it never ended well. He gave a grudging nod. He would bring change to many of their ways soon enough, but respecting wisdom and giving honor to a visitor would always be the right things to do.

Pul took three rapid blows to the chest that would have left dents in a tree, followed by a sweeping kick to the face that sent him stumbling back. The stranger seemed to be able to put power into his strikes far greater than his tall, rangy frame ought to allow. Pul retreated, panting like a bellows and taking advantage of a moment’s respite. But no – it was more than that. The chieftain’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his arms were out wide, stiff and corded with oaken-hard muscle. Then Kest heard a rumble in the fat man’s throat as if he’d swallowed a beehive, and he understood. Pul was calling on the strength of his beast. A great honor to this stranger, to call forth such power just to fight him. The young hunter tried to swallow his jealousy, and watched as the big man’s bare arms, normally a deep brown, flushed with the dull red of battle heat, suddenly blanched of color and developed deep wrinkles and folds, taking on a visible, thick hardness. He had called on the skin of the rhino, and his arms were now gray, hard, and thrice as strong as they had been before. Kest’s respect for Pul inched higher at the sight – he’d never seen anyone change so much of their body so quickly.

The stranger darted forward, his head lowered as if he meant to drive the crown of his head into Pul’s sternum. With a roar, the chieftain dropped a mighty two-fisted blow to the base of the wraith man’s neck just before he barreled into him. The black-robed graybeard bounced off Pul’s belly, loose-limbed, and tottered for a silent moment. The two men held the silent tableau for a long, breathless fistful of heartbeats – the one a dark, tattered ghost, the other with arms wrought of stone. Then the stranger’s knees folded, and he pitched forward into the dust.

For a moment Kest thought he might be dead, but Pul used a foot to roll the man onto his back, and his chest still moved. The chief himself was still heaving labored breaths – it had been some time since he’d had to fight – but his voice was strong and steady as he put a foot on the center of the man’s chest, holding him down. “Does it suffice? Have we taken each other’s measure?”

The man did not seem inconvenienced in the slightest as he lay submissive beneath another man’s foot, and merely said, “It is enough.” His voice was quiet but commanding, drawing the ear and the eye without being intrusive. Pul stepped back and offered the man a hand, which he took graciously. He stood and brushed the dirt from his robes. He’s not even sweating. Nor breathing hard. How is that possible? It was hot and sticky in the forest this time of year, with the pall of humidity wrapping itself around a body like a wet, hairy pelt from morning till eve. Kest was sweating just standing there, and the stranger’s immunity to the heat seemed like an injustice pointed directly at him on a day when injustices aplenty had already been thrust upon him. His dislike of the man solidified in his heart and wedged itself into the young hunter’s awareness. He decided that this haughty foreigner ought to grovel at the feet of the Granaal clan. It will happen. I will make it happen.

Pul turned to the crowd, holding his rhinoform arms to the sky, completing the ritual of the contest. “Under the eyes of all, I claim victory! We are strengthened, we prosper!” The gathered tribe responded with hands slapping their own bare skin – the men hitting their chests, the women the soft skin on the inside of their forearms – sealing the statement as truth. Kest joined in respectfully. The moment he did, Pul zeroed in on him as if the sound of his skin was perceptibly different from everyone else’s. The chief’s face lit up, and he crowed, “The hunter returns!” All faces turned toward him, and the whispering amongst the tribe took on an excited, speculative tone. Kest’s heart soared. He was not forgotten. His mother stepped back from him to allow the