There is another raucous shout—outside circuit, focus in, no matter—but someone throws a spear, gives more teeth to the Wolf. Wolf catches it. Hefts it. Smiles.
Našobok took two steps forwards. Tokela also, but sideways. Then again. And once more—four steps instead of two, leading them in a tiny and twinned circuit.
“You’re as pretty on your feet as on your back,” Našobok purred, tossing the spear from hand to hand. He feinted sideways; at the last instant rocked forwards.
Was foiled, not by Tokela, but another dancer who stood before Našobok, motioning with his spear. The crowd greeted this with a loud surge of bloodthirsty encouragement…
N’da, growls Hare. Mine. Find another.
“Hunh” was Našobok’s comment as he flicked his eyes over the new dancer. “You know you’re just going to start trouble…”
Hare moves forwards, all silence, all intent. Either the new dancer—Gull—doesn’t see him coming or is too arrogant to bother watching his back. Perhaps he thinks Wolf will give warning. But Wolf watches, gaze betraying nothing, as Hare gets in the first blow—a round sweep to Gull’s legs, sending him flying.
But Gull is no Bear, to fall heavily or easily; he has the carmine wyrh-tree on his ribs, has spent his Hoops in the practice and the hunt. He hits the ground, rolls up to face Hare. He is smiling.
Hare does not smile. He snarls. Waits.
Našobok watched, a lopsided grin tugging at his generous mouth, and drawled, “D’you know how long it’s been since I’ve had two males fight over me? You’re quite turning my head.” The grin became a laugh as he flipped the spear hand over hand. “Both of ’em.”
A small part of Tokela heard him, gave an inward chuckle; outwardly he stood, lone stillness amongst the dancers, the drums throbbing in his chest and rushing through his veins like Riverlet overflow. Shards of light made a Dance behind his eyes, sparking and scattering, copper and silver brine… Rivertalk lit by the Moons.
Tokela found himself welcoming it. Wanting it.
Waited, silent and still…
Gull is unnerved by this silent determination, by the eyes-meeting-eyes of challenge. He lunges forwards, a move of desperation, and Hare sees it as if his opponent is moving through River water, slow and easily targeted. Gull is skilled, but Hare has also spent many Suns in the practice and the hunt. Gull is stronger, but Hare is lightning-swift, skimming a silent undertow.
Spears clack and slide and clack again, and Gull shows throat, retreats from the blazing eyes behind the Hare-mask.
“You,” Našobok said softly, “are quite the fancy dancer.”
The talk sank Tokela even deeper into his own skin. Here. He was here, and around him the drums beat heavy, slower. Spent. Many of the dancers had already chosen. Masks were coming off, weapons were being lowered, partners had been wooed and won. Tokela looked at his chosen partner, felt their gazes lock hungry. Hung.
“Ai,” Našobok breathed, “just look at you. You want me, lovely Ša’abo?” His lip quivered up over his teeth. “Do us both a favour and just come get me…”
Not yet, Hare whimpers, not yet. Prove yourself before he takes the mask from you, before he sees.
So no more silence, no more waiting. With a cry, Hare swings his spear, whirls and spins. Wolf is driven backward, surprised, unable to do much more than shake his mane and parry protest. Spears talk, arguing in clacks of hardwood and tings of folded bronze points, catch and slide. A line of crimson blossoms on Hare’s breast as Wolf dodges and strikes—first blood!—and Wolf is given a return streak of scarlet along the outside of his thigh. Blood stings with sweat, grunts of effort and harsh gasps...
“Enough!” Našobok went to his knees, spear haft held up above him, offering and surrender. Tokela froze midthrust; momentum disagreed—violently—and he stumbled, went down as well.
Našobok dropped his spear, lurched forwards. He almost didn’t make the catch, but an improbable twist of his torso let him grab Tokela. They both half rolled, half sprawled across the ground.
This time it was Tokela who collided atop Našobok, only to find himself stilled, held fast by gaze, by sweat-slicked muscles, heated skin, rasping breaths. Found himself willingly lost in eyes meeting eyes, in skin against skin… lost even further as a heated, hard knot pushed close against his hip, rousing undeniable reaction in Tokela’s own already-tight clout.
He wished he could come up with talk as sharp as the knife on his calf, or as clever as the talk Našobok had been making. But, nothing. Našobok merely panted against Tokela’s shoulder, murmured something Tokela couldn’t hear over the humming behind his ears. He was dimly aware of the drums still going, the remaining dancers still sparring and stepping. Aware of the solid and thick edge of quiet spreading into the watchers closest to them. Then Našobok laid his head back on the ground, dark hair spilling behind him like kelp washed up ashore, and closed his eyes, smiled.
It was a smile to break whatever will Tokela might have left.
Našobok opened his eyes and reached up, smoothing fingers across the woven surface of the mask. The motion made Tokela more afraid than he’d ever been in his life and those strong fingers, amazingly gentle, began to push the mask upward. Tokela raised his hand out of protective instinct, forced himself still. Covering Našobok’s fingers with his own, he pulled them away just as gentle. Then he tilted up to his knees—he didn’t want to, just wanted to mould and melt himself into that warm, broad body—but gritted his teeth. Stood.
NAŠOBOK STARTED to protest, then settled onto his elbows, the soft smile still on his face. This was going to be interesting.
The oških yanked the mask off with a sudden vehemence and stared down at him, the mask dangling from one hand. Dark hair fell across his face, chin tucking
