The Blackgod

And at that, there was silence for a moment, before Brother Horse's voice rose up.

“Well, my nephews are back!” he said dryly, not loudly at all. But in the quiet after Chuuzek's assertion he was more than audible.

“A Mang's nephews are Mang” Chuuzek spat.

“Well, so they are,” Brother Horse agreed. “And so they are—in this camp, at this moment.” The old man pushed through the crowd, two younger clansmen trailing closely. He glared up at Chuuzek. “Mang know how to behave properly in a relative's camp.”

“Yes,” the green-eyed boy assented. “Yes, they do.”

Chuuzek, whose face had been set in a fierce scowl, suddenly grinned broadly. He turned to Brother Horse. “You misunderstand, Shutsebe. This is the time of the Ben'cheen, of feasting and games. I was only asking your nephew if he wanted to go at the bech'iinesh.”

“He does not” Brother Horse snapped.

Perkar pursed his lips, trying desperately to place the word. He had heard it before, and it meant something like “flat” … No. It meant “they slap.” It was a game, and a rough one.

Chuuzek shrugged off Brother Horse's pronouncement.

“He can tell me himself,” Chuuzek said, “if he is too small and soft for a Mang pastime.”

“Well,” Perkar said softly, “I have no wish to fight you. But if it is only a game you wish to play …”

Brother Horse was frowning and shaking his head no, and the lift in Ngangata's brow also told him that he was agreeing to a bad thing. But if he did not do something, he would not know peace long enough even to get Hezhi. And if he did, there was nothing to stop a party of these men from following him from the village and attacking him in the open desert, away from Brother Horse and his hospitality. No, it was time for him to do something. And Chuuzek was looking at him expectantly.

He had five hundred leagues of Mang territory to ride through to reach his home. Best get this over with—or at least begin it—now.

“Of course. I accept your invitation,” he said, and the crowd burst into a hoarse cheer. Chuuzek bared his teeth in satisfaction.

“Fine,” Brother Horse said. “But let my nephew get a bite to eat, something to drink. There is plenty enough time for Slapping today.”

“No,” Perkar said. “No, I feel well enough to play now.” As he said this, he stared fully into Chuuzek's eyes and saw the malicious light there.

Brother Horse sighed. “Perkar has no paddle. I will loan him mine.” He turned and strode off.

For an instant, no one spoke, but then the crowd surged around them, and it almost seemed as if they lifted up Perkar and his mount and carried them to the track around the camp. Still shouting, they parted about the hoof- beaten path and lined the sides of it. Perkar wasn't certain, but many of them seemed to be taking bets.

Presently Brother Horse returned, bearing a wooden paddle as long as a man's arm and a hand's breadth wide. It looked to be hardwood wrapped with leather over some sort of padding. Brother Horse handed it up to him, and he took the felt-wrapped grip. It weighed almost as much as a sword.

Chuuzek was nowhere in sight.

“What do I do?” Perkar asked.

Brother Horse shook his head. “Tell me what you want buried with you. Chuuzek is going to kill you.”

Perkar smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes. What do I doT

The old man pointed around the track. “He's around on the other side of the village. In a moment, someone will blow a horn. You ride toward each other. You hit each other with the paddles.”

“How is the winner known?”

Brother Horse spit. “Oh, you'll know,” he said. “You just keep going until someone can't or won't. My advice to you is to fall off right away. Very dishonorable, but then again, it will give Chuuzek only one chance to break your neck.”

“Can I parry his paddle?”

“You can do whatever you want. It won't matter.”

“You've never seen me fight.”

Brother Horse laid a hand on his leg and looked up frankly. “You bear a godsword; I know that. No doubt with it in your hands you are a great warrior. But today you are just a man on a horse with a wooden paddle, facing a Mang who was in the saddle nine months before he was born.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Normally, people are careful enough when they play this game. Accidents happen, though, and if it looks like an accident, people won't call it murder. With you, it won't even have to look good.”

Perkar nodded grimly. “Well,” he muttered. “Let's go, then.”

Brother Horse nodded. “When someone blows a horn, ride that way.” He pointed north.

Perkar tightened his grip on the paddle, swung it experimentally a few times.

And someone blew a horn, two sharp notes. The crowd cheered raggedly, and Perkar dug his heels into T'esh. His mount leapt forward almost without that, as if it knew the significance of the horn. Perkar flexed his hand on the grip, then tightened.

“You can still help me, Harka?” he snarled into the wind.

“Some. Not much. Draw me and I can help you much more. ”

Perkar gritted his teeth but did not answer. T'esh had fallen into a fluid gallop, what Ngangata called an “archer's gait.” Where was Chuuzek?

The howling of the crowd, already deafening, rose in pitch. Chuuzek and his mount appeared in the curving track. For an instant, Perkar felt a dismay so powerful and shocking he nearly bolted his steed from the course. Chuuzek resembled a bear, his obsidian eyes glinting with a feral ferocity that smote Perkar with nearly physical force. Mang avoided eye contact normally, but for Chuuzek, only Perkar existed. There was no wavering there, no second thoughts, only murder.

Perkar bit his lip furiously and dismissed his fear. He was Perkar of the Clan Barku. He had faced the goddess of the Hunt on her lion, felt the steel of her lance in his throat. No Human horseman could match the terror of that.

So he narrowed his eyes, counted hoofbeats, and when the time came, he swung. The moment seemed to slow, as the hurtling mounts converged, eyes rolling but no hesitation in their strides. Chuuzek struck simply, hammering his weapon in a flat, sidewise arc designed to catch Perkar in the face. He was passing on Perkar's right, and there was little he could do save block the furious swing, so Perkar cut around at his enemy's paddle.

The boards clapped together, and a staggering shock raced up Perkar's arm and jarred his teeth. The blow lifted him up and out of his saddle, and it was only luck that one of his feet stayed in its stirrup. Brother Horse's paddle went spinning from his grip, and his head banged against his horse's rump. For a moment, Perkar couldn't grasp what was happening; then he slammed into the dusty ground. His foot still in the stirrup, the earth cut and burned him as T'esh thundered on another ten paces before slowing, realizing that his rider was no longer mounted.

Perkar twisted out of the stirrup and spat the sudden taste of iron from his mouth. His lungs were burning and the air seemed like a rain of golden fire, drowning his senses. The hooting of the crowd was distant, like a faraway flock of blackbirds chattering. Chuuzek, paddle held high, vanished around the edge of the track.

Grimly Perkar fought to his feet. A boy of perhaps ten hurried toward him, bearing the paddle, and he lurched forward to take it, stumbled back to T'esh, and remounted. For a dizzy moment, he wasn't sure which direction to ride in, but T'esh seemed to know, and he crouched in the saddle as the great beast beneath him returned to a full charge.

Chuuzek reappeared, a happy snarl on his face. Perkar felt anger, white hot, surge through him, and suddenly all he cared to do was to shatter those smiling teeth into the big man's throat. He heard a hoarse cry and realized that it was himself. Bouncing in the stirrups, leaning forward, he struck straight overhand. Chuuzek's blow arced out