CHAPTER SevenTEEN:

DUEL

 

            The day following the Kodiak’s return, Rolak made an announcement he counted as his own, but one that Tyree and Shuyah knew was the witch woman’s view. The Tranca would build their forces for defense, but they would not attack the Logalla in their twisted forest refuge. Bolstered by their victory at Verdanta, some in the clan whispered of Rolak’s cowardice. These whispers were heard by him. In his fury at being branded faint-hearted, he made a fateful decision. He put the blame on the Kodiak.

            “It is the Kodiak that incites my people’s rebellion!” he fumed to Koleefus in the privacy of his hut.

            “It is not rebellion,” Koleefus advised. “It is merely frustration at not being able to strike back at the Logalla. A strong leader ignores such whispers and continues to do what is right, regardless of its popularity.”

            In his rage, Rolak could not be dissuaded. It was the one thing Koleefus could not manipulate in him. It was hate for the Kodiak that grew instead of mellowed at Tyree’s presence. With a show of great determination, and in full battle dress, Rolak approached the hut of his sister wherein resided the Kodiak.

            “Come forth, Kodiak!” Rolak bellowed. “Meet the fate at my hands that is long overdue!”

            A large crowd gathered as Tyree emerged without armor to face the hulking figure of Rolak, but Shuyah quickly stepped out of the hut and placed herself between them.

            “Did Tyree not save your life in the Battle of the Avalanche?” she said, heated herself at Rolak’s folly. “Did he not lead the mission to destroy the rain catchers?”

            “And does he not now humiliate my rule by bedding my sister?” Rolak bellowed. “I demand the rukani!”

            Shuyah blanched, and hung her head. The crowd buzzed.

            “What’s he talking about?” Tyree asked.

            “The rukani. An ancient right of the Tranca,” she softly said. “Any time our leader thinks his rule is being usurped or undermined by another it is his right to challenge the usurper.”

            “What kind of challenge?”

            “Combat. To the death,” she said, turning to go back into the hut. Tyree followed.

            “A foolish ritual,” Tyree said. “Would it not often result in the decimation of your clan’s leadership?”

            “It is believed that the stronger survives, thus the leader is of greater value once winning the rukani. It has been so with the Tranca since time began.”

            “And I was beginning to think the Tranca had become civilized!” Tyree sighed. “Then so be it.”

            “You can’t!” Shuyah pleaded. “Must I lose either brother or lover over this?”

            “I cannot have him at my back for the rest of our lives together,” Tyree said. “This is of his choosing. I cannot be blamed if I kill him.”

            “And what of me? Whom should I blame?”

            He took her by the shoulders and looked into her face.

            “I know it must be hard for you, but the reality is Rolak has pushed it too far. Twice he has tried to murder me. What else can I do but get my armor?”

            He turned and reached for his breast plate lying in the corner of her hut.

            “No,” Shuyah said drawing a deep breath of resignation, “the rukani is fought without armor.”

            Rolak shed his armor piece by piece, there before the hut of his sister. He retained only his sword. Tyree stepped out of Shuyah’s hut sword in hand. A burly guard tied one end of a long leather strap to the wrist of each combatant’s empty hand. The tie was three sword lengths long, so that both could stand beyond the sword reach of the other, but neither could run—neither had any intention of running.

            The Tranca gathered around the combatants in a great circle there upon the grassy center of Verdanta. The witch woman Koleefus came forward. First, she inspected the knots in the leather strap around each warrior’s wrist. She nodded her approval to the guard who’d tied the knots. Tyree noted briefly that Koleefus seemed untroubled by the rukani. It was as though her perception had foretold the outcome, but only to her. The others in the crowd buzzed with excitement at the prospect, to them a sporting one. Wagers were made, and sides taken. All were caught up in the drama. The drama came in a different light, however, to one among them. Shuyah held back her tears as best she could, for either possible outcome would be a disaster for her.

            The witch woman stepped back, raised her hand, and a small eagle feather seemed to materialize in her gaunt fingertips. It was of the white downy variety. Tyree had been instructed that the rukani began when the feather touched the ground. Koleefus let go of the feather. The wind was in a playful mood. It toyed with the combatants, for the feather eddied agonizingly in the wind as it spiraled slowly toward the green grass of paradise. A moment before it landed, Rolak struck.

            Tyree had not been watching the feather. Tyree focused on Rolak’s shadow. When his sudden slash came forth, Tyree was ready and parried with his own blade. Sparks flew and the fight began. Bigger, more muscular Rolak slashed wildly again and again with the same downward impacts that had split enemy shields, and heads. The sheer force drove the Kodiak backward until he fell into the crowd. The crowd pushed him back into the circle just as Rolak sent out a sweeping slice of his blade and at the height of Tyree’s throat. Tyree ducked and a cheering civilian standing behind him had his cheer cut short and his throat slashed open. Blood spurted forth. The dead man fell forward into the circle. The crowd dragged him away.

            The two combatants were unaware of this as their swords met over and over. Rolak sent out a thrust at Tyree’s heart, but the Kodiak sidestepped, caught Rolak’s sword hand under his left arm, and punched Rolak in the face with the fist of his own sword hand. Rolak staggered back reeling from the blow, blood gushing from his sizeable nose. Rolak did not fall. Instead, as a good warrior always did, he counterattacked, yanking at the leather strap that bound them and pulling Tyree into his sword’s range. Again he slashed horizontally, but Tyree dived onto the ground and rolled to his feet behind Rolak, whom he kicked in the behind. Rolak staggered forward, and Tyree yanked on the strap, timing it so Rolak was jerked off balance. He landed on his back with a grunt and a thud. Tyree made a downward strike, which Rolak caught on his blade. Rolak then slashed at Tyree’s knees, forcing the Kodiak to jump back. This allowed Rolak to leap to his feet and face Tyree.

            Again, they engaged sword-to-sword, over and over, clash after clash. One of Rolak’s mighty blows glanced off Tyree’s blade and cleaved a wound at the round of Tyree’s shoulder. Dazed, Tyree pulled the long strap yanking Rolak into his arms, holding him so Tyree could recover from the strike. They were too close for Rolak to employ the point of his blade, so he punched the fist of his free hand into the still tender wound the Logalla arrow had made in Tyree’s side—the wound stitched by the Ghost Warriors, then cleaned and tended by the sister of the man trying to kill Tyree. Tyree’s mind exploded from the pain, but he held onto the arms of his foe.

            Tyree then employed a tactic taught him by his grandfather. He placed his hip under Rolak’s center of balance, gained the desired leverage, and flipped the much larger Rolak into the air. Rolak landed on his side with an audible grunt, but lashed out a sweeping leg to take the feet out from under Tyree. Rolak, too, had been well schooled in hand-to-hand. Tyree landed on his back and the wind left his lungs in agony, the pain in his wounded, now bleeding, side, unbearable. Rolak scurried around on hands and knees behind Tyree, looping the strap around Tyree’s throat. Rolak could not employ his sword without releasing the strap, so instead he cinched it up as tight as he could, hoping to strangle the life out of his nemesis. Tyree’s senses and quickness had told him to catch the looping strand of leather as it flashed past his eyes, but he’d only managed to hook two fingers under the strap. These two fingers were all that was holding off unconsciousness. He struggled to bring them both to their feet. His vision began to fade. He was an instant from oblivion when he struck out backwards with an elbow that found the solar plexus of his adversary—another tactic taught Tyree by grandfather. Rolak staggered backwards, releasing his grip on the strap. Tyree shook off the noose, turned, and attacked.

            Now Tyree employed the greatest tactic taught by his grandfather. Throughout the fight Tyree had been conserving his strength while his opponent expended his. Tyree rained blow after blow on the leader of the Tranca. The crowd gasped as Tyree’s final blow sliced Rolak’s sword in half, and severed his collarbone. Still, Rolak dropped only to his knees. Tyree placed his sword point at Rolak’s throat. Rolak recoiled to get out of range, but Tyree had drawn up the slack in the strap, twisting it over and over his palm so that its length was well shortened. Tyree pulled the strap, bringing Rolak’s throat back to his sword point. The crowd was in awe. Tyree raised his sword high and swept it in a downward arc toward his adversary. But instead of slicing Rolak’s exposed throat, the fine brave iron blade pinged as it snipped the leather strap that bound them. Rolak fell back onto the grass, bloodied and beaten.

            “You are too valuable to your people to be lost over a foolish ritual,” Tyree breathlessly panted, both combatants spent and drenched with sweat in the extraordinary heat.

            Tyree then stepped away. The crowd was stunned. Shuyah was so relieved, the tears she’d been restraining issued forth. She hid them from all but Koleefus.

            “I will leave the Tranca,” Tyree stated, “for the sake of peace among your people. I have caused you too much harm to stay longer.”

            Tyree then went into Shuyah’s hut. There he began to gather his belongings for the second time in a month. Moments later, Shuyah entered and threw her arms around him, adding to the pain he had in both the old wound in his side, and the new one on his shoulder. She recognized his pain, released him, and tore off the remnants of his shirt. She pushed him back onto her bed. He did not resist. She snatched up medications and began to clean and dress his wounds. He was dazed, but the sting of the ointments brought his senses back to near normal.

            “Neither wound will need to be sewn,” she said after working on them for some time.

            Tyree looked at her as she worked to ease his pain. He thought of how she always worked—worked to help win his victories and to soften his defeats. How could he leave her?

            “You shall not leave me,” the girl said as though reading his thoughts. “I’m going with you.”

            This filled Tyree’s battered body with joy. He knew that she was of great value to her people, but she was invaluable to him.

            Throughout the rest of the day and night, they tended Tyree’s wounds and packed the things they would need for a life together upon the snow. At dawn, Tyree and Shuyah left the Tranca clan. Shuyah rode her royal stallion and Tyree his favorite snow pony. They had Tyree’s three well-laden Kodiak pack ponies and two extra snow ponies in tow. The extra snow ponies, too, were packed with goods and portable shelter. Though the snow ponies were bred for combat, they did not object to beast of burden necessity. Tyree had whispered to all his ponies and they were exhilarated at the thought of the adventure ahead.

            The lovers left behind the paradise of Verdanta, and the Tranca clan camped just outside. For Tyree it was the loss of a second home. For Shuyah it was the loss of the only home she’d ever known. But for both, love was the one thing they could not leave behind.