Chapter VI

DUELIST'S CHALLENGE

Inside the red stockade there was a crowded community. The Salariki

demanded privacy of a kind, and even the unmarried warriors did not share

barracks, but each had a small cubicle of his own. So that the mud brick

and timber erections of one of their clan cities resembled nothing so

much as the comb cells of a busy beehive. Although Paft's was considered

a large clan, it numbered only about two hundred fighting men and their

numerous wives, children and captive servants. Not all of them normally

lived at this center, but for the funeral feasting they had

assembled--which meant a lot of doubling up and tenting out under

makeshift cover between the regular buildings of the town. So that the

Terrans were glad to be guided through this crowded maze to the Great

Hall which was its heart.

As the trading center had been, the hall was a circular enclosure open to

the sky above but divided in wheel-spoke fashion with posts of the red

wood, each supporting a metal basket filled with imflammable material.

Here were no lowly stools or trading tables. One vast circular board,

broken only by a gap at the foot, ran completely around the wall. At the

end opposite the entrance was the high chair of the chieftain, set on a

two step dais. Though the feast had not yet officially begun, the Terrans

saw that the majority of the places were already occupied.

They were led around the perimeter of the enclosure to places not far

from the high seat. Van Rycke settled down with a grunt of satisfaction.

It was plain that the Free Traders were numbered among the nobility. They

could be sure of good trade in the days to come.

Delegations from neighboring clans arrived in close companies of ten or

twelve and were granted seats, as had been the Terrans, in groups. Dane

noted that there was no intermingling of clan with clan. And, as they

were to understand later that night, there was a very good reason for

that precaution.

"Hope all our adaption shots work," Ali murmured, eyeing with no pleasure

at all the succession of platters now being borne through the inner

opening of the table.

While the Traders had learned long ago that the wisest part of valor was

not to sample alien strong drinks, ceremony often required that they

break bread (or its other world equivalent) on strange planets. And so

science served expediency and now a Trader bound for any Galactic banquet

was immunized, as far as was medically possible, against the evil

consequences of consuming food not originally intended for Terran

stomachs. One of the results being that Traders acquired a far flung

reputation of possessing bird-like appetites--since it was always better

to nibble and live, than to gorge and die.

Groft had not yet taken his place in the vacant chieftain's chair. For

the present he stood in the center of the table circle, directing the

captive slaves who circulated with the food. Until the magic moment when

the clan themselves would proclaim their overlord, he remained merely the

eldest son of the house, relatively without power.

As the endless rows of platters made their way about the table the basket

lights on the tops of the pillars were ignited, dispelling the dusk of

evening. And there was an attendant stationed by each to throw on

handsful of aromatic bark which burned with puffs of lavender smoke,

adding to the many warring scents. The Terrans had recourse at intervals

to their own pungent smelling bottles, merely to clear their heads of the

drugging fumes.

Luckily, Dane thought as the feast proceeded, that smoke from the

braziers went straight up. Had they been in a roofed space they might

have been overcome. As it was--were they entirely conscious of all that

was going on around them?

His reason for that speculation was the dance now being performed in the

center of the hall--their fight with the gorp being enacted in a series

of bounds and stabbings. He was sure that he could no longer trust his

eyes when the claw knife of the victorious dancer-hunter apparently

passed completely through the chest of another wearing a grotesque

monster mask.

As a fitting climax to their horrific display, three of the men who had

been with them on the reef entered, dragging behind them--still enmeshed

in the hunting net--the gorp which Dane had stunned. It was uncurled now

and very much alive, but the pincer claws which might have cut its way

to safety were encased in balls of hard substance.

Freed from the net, suspended by its sealed claws, the gorp swung back

and forth from a standard set up before the high seat. Its murderous jaws

snapped futilely, and from it came an enraged snake's vicious hissing.

Though totally in the power of its enemies it gave an impression of

terrifying strength and menace.

The sight of their ancient foe aroused the Salariki, inflaming warriors

who leaned across the table to hurl tongue-twisting invective at the

captive monster. Dane gathered that seldom had a living gorp been

delivered helpless into their hands and they proposed to make the most of

this wonderful opportunity. And the Terran suddenly wished the

monstrosity had fallen back into the sea. He had no soft thoughts for the

gorp after what he had seen at the reef and the tales he had heard, but

neither did he like what he saw now expressed in gestures, heard in the

tones of voices about them.

A storm priest put an end to the outcries. His dun cloak making a spot of

darkness amid all the flashing color, he came straight to the place where

the gorp swung. As he took his stand before the wriggling creature the

din gradually faded, the warriors settled back into their seats, a pool

of quiet spread through the enclosure.

Groft came up to take his position beside the priest. With both hands he

carried a two handled cup. It was not the ornamented goblet which stood

before each diner, but a manifestly older artifact, fashioned of some

dull black substance and having the appearance of being even older than

the hall or town.

One of the warriors who had helped to bring in the gorp now made a quick

and accurate cast with a looped rope, snaring the monster's head and

pulling back almost at a right angle. With deliberation the storm priest

produced a knife--the first straight bladed weapon Dane had seen on

Sargol. He made a single thrust in the soft underpart of the gorp's

throat, catching in the cup he took from Groft some of the ichor which

spurted from the wound.

The gorp thrashed madly, spattering table and surrounding Salariki with

its life fluid, but the attention of the crowd was riveted elsewhere.

Into the old cup the priest poured another substance from a flask brought

by an underling. He shook the cup back and forth, as if to mix its

contents thoroughly and then handed it to Groft.

Holding it before him the young chieftain leaped to the table top and so

to stand before the high seat. There was a hush throughout the enclosure.

Now even the gorp had ceased its wild struggles and hung limp in its

bonds.

Groft raised the cup above his head and gave a loud shout in the archaic

language of his clan. He was answered by a chant from the warriors who

would in battle follow his banner, chant punctuated with the clinking

slap of knife blades brought down forcibly on the board.

Three times he recited some formula and was answered by the others. Then,

in another period of sudden quiet, he raised the cup to his lips and

drank off its contents in a single draught, turning the goblet upside

down when he had done to prove that not a drop remained within. A shout

tore through the great hall. The Salariki were all on their feet, waving

their knives over their heads in honor to their new ruler. And Groft for

the first time seated himself in the high seat. The clan was no longer

without a chieftain. Groft held his father's place.

"Show over?" Dane heard Stotz murmur and Van Rycke's disappointing reply:

"Not yet. They'll probably make a night of it. Here comes another round

of drinks--"

"And trouble with them,"--that was Captain Jellico being prophetic.

"By the Coalsack's Ripcord!" That exclamation had been jolted out of Rip

and Dane turned to see what had so jarred the usually serene

Astrogator-apprentice. He was just in time to witness an important piece

of Sargolian social practice.

A young warrior, surely only within a year or so of receiving his knife,

was facing an older Salarik, both on their feet. The head and shoulder

fur of the older fighter was dripping wet and an empty goblet rolled

across the table to bump to the floor. A hush had fallen on the immediate

neighbors of the pair, and there was an air of expectancy about the

company.

"Threw his drink all over the other fellow," Rip's soft whisper

explained. "That means a duel--"

"Here and now?" Dane had heard of the personal combat proclivities of the

Salariki.

"Should be to the death for an insult such as that," Ali remarked, as

usual surveying the scene from his chosen role as bystander. As a child

he had survived the unspeakable massacres of the Crater War, nothing had

been able to crack his surface armor since.

"The young fool!" that was Steen Wilcox sizing up the situation from the

angle of a naturally cautious nature and some fifteen years of experience

on a great many different worlds. "He'll be mustered out for good before

he knows what happened to him!"

The younger Salarik had barked a question at his elder and had been

promptly answered by that dripping warrior. Now their neighbors came to

life with an efficiency which suggested that they had been waiting for

such a move, it had happened so many times that every man knew just the

right procedure from that point on.

In order for a Sargolian feast to be a success, the Terrans gathered from

overheard remarks, at least one duel must be staged sometime during the

festivities. And those not actively engaged did a lot of brisk betting in

the background.

"Look there--at that fellow in the violet cloak," Rip directed Dane. "See

what he just laid down?"

The nobleman in the violet cloak was not one of Groft's liege men, but a

member of the delegation from another clan. And what he had laid down on

the table--indicating as he did so his choice as winner in the coming

combat, the elder warrior--was a small piece of white material on which

reposed a slightly withered but familiar leaf. The neighbor he wagered

with, eyed the stake narrowly, bending over to sniff at it, before he

piled up two gem set armlets, a personal scent box and a thumb ring to

balance.

At this practical indication of just how much the Terran herb was

esteemed Dane regretted anew their earlier ignorance. He glanced along

the board and saw that Van Rycke had noted that stake and was calling

their Captain's attention to it.

But such side issues were forgotten as the duelists vaulted into the

circle rimmed by the table, a space now vacated for their action. They

were stripped to their loin cloths, their cloaks thrown aside. Each

carried his net in his right hand, his claw knife ready in his left. As

yet the Traders had not seen Salarik against Salarik in action and in

spite of themselves they edged forward in their seats, as intent as the

natives upon what was to come. The finer points of the combat were lost

on them, and they did not understand the drilled casts of the net, which

had become as formalized through the centuries as the ancient and now

almost forgotten sword play of their own world. The young Salarik had

greater agility and speed, but the veteran who faced him had the

experience.

To Terran eyes the duel had some of the weaving, sweeping movements of

the earlier ritual dance. The swift evasions of the nets were graceful

and so timed that many times the meshes grazed the skin of the fighter

who fled entrapment.

Dane believed that the elder man was tiring, and the youngster must have

shared that opinion. There was a leap to the right, a sudden flurry of

dart and retreat, and then a net curled high and fell, enfolding flailing

arms and kicking legs. When the clutch rope was jerked tight, the

captured youth was thrown off balance. He rolled frenziedly, but there

was no escaping the imprisoning strands.

A shout applauded the victor. He stood now above his captive who lay

supine, his throat or breast ready for either stroke of the knife his

captor wished to deliver. But it appeared that the winner was not minded

to end the encounter with blood. Instead he reached out a long, befurred

arm, took up a filled goblet from the table and with serious

deliberation, poured its contents onto the upturned face of the loser.

For a moment there was a dead silence around the feast board and then a

second roar, to which the honestly relieved Terrans added spurts of

laughter. The sputtering youth was shaken free of the net and went down

on his knees, tendering his opponent his knife, which the other thrust

along with his own into his sash belt. Dane gathered from overheard

remarks that the younger man was, for a period of time, to be determined

by clan council, now the servant-slave of his overthrower and that since

they were closely united by blood ties, this solution was considered

eminently suitable--though had the elder killed his opponent, no one

would have thought the worse of him for that deed.

It was the Queen's men who were to provide the next center of attraction.

Groft climbed down from his high seat and came to face across the board

those who had accompanied him on the hunt. This time there was no

escaping the sipping of the potent drink which the new chieftain slopped

from his own goblet into each of theirs.

The fiery mouthful almost gagged Dane, but he swallowed manfully and

hoped for the best as it burned like acid down his throat into his

middle, there to mix uncomfortably with the viands he had eaten. Weeks'

thin face looked very white, and Dane noticed with malicious enjoyment,

that Ali had an unobtrusive grip on the table which made his knuckles

stand out in polished knobs--proving that there _were_ things which could

upset the imperturbable Kamil.

Fortunately they were _not_ required to empty that flowing bowl in one

gulp as Groft had done. The ceremonial mouthful was deemed enough and

Dane sat down thankfully--but with uneasy fears for the future.

Groft had started back to his high seat when there was an interruption

which had not been foreseen. A messenger threaded his way among the

serving men and spoke to the chieftain, who glanced at the Terrans and

then nodded.

Dane, his queasiness growing every second, was not attending until he

heard a bitten off word from Rip's direction and looked up to see a party

of I-S men coming into the open space before the high seat. The men from

the Queen stiffened--there was something in the attitude of the newcomers

which hinted at trouble.

"What do you wish, sky lords?" That was Groft using the Trade Lingo, his

eyes half closed as he lolled in his chair of state, almost as if he were

about to witness some entertainment provided for his pleasure.

"We wish to offer you the good fortune desires of our hearts--" That was

Kallee, the flowery words rolling with the proper accent from his tongue.

"And that you shall not forget us--we also offer gifts--"

At a gesture from their Cargo-master, the I-S men set down a small chest.

Groft, his chin resting on a clenched fist, lost none of his lazy air.

"They are received," he retorted with the formal acceptance. "And no one

can have too much good fortune. The Howlers of the Black Winds know

that." But he tendered no invitation to join the feast.

Kallee did not appear to be disconcerted. His next move was one which

took his rivals by surprise, in spite of their suspicions.

"Under the laws of the Fellowship, O, Groft," he clung to the formal

speech, "I claim redress--"

Ali's hand moved. Through his growing distress Dane saw Van Rycke's jaw

tighten, the fighting mask snap back on Captain Jellico's face. Whatever

came now was real trouble.

Groft's eyes flickered over the party from the Queen. Though he had just

pledged cup friendship with four of them, he had the malicious humor of

his race. He would make no move to head off what might be coming.

"By the right of the knife and the net," he intoned, "you have the power

to claim personal satisfaction. Where is your enemy?"

Kallee turned to face the Free Traders. "I hereby challenge a champion to

be set out from these off-worlders to meet by the blood and by the water

my champion--"

The Salariki were getting excited. This was superb entertainment, an

engagement such as they had never hoped to see--alien against alien. The

rising murmur of their voices was like the growl of a hunting beast.

Groft smiled and the pleasure that expression displayed was neither

Terran--nor human. But then the clan leader was not either, Dane reminded

himself.

"Four of these warriors are clan-bound," he said. "But the others may

produce a champion--"

Dane looked along the line of his comrades--Ali, Rip, Weeks and himself

had just been ruled out. That left Jellico, Van Rycke, Karl Kosti, the

giant jetman whose strength they had to rely upon before, Stotz the

Engineer, Medic Tau and Steen Wilcox. If it were strength alone he would

have chosen Kosti, but the big man was not too quick a thinker--

Jellico got to his feet, the embodiment of a star lane fighting man. In

the flickering light the scar on his cheek seemed to ripple. "Who's your

champion?" he asked Kallee.

The Eysie Cargo-master was grinning. He was confident he had pushed them

into a position from which they could not extricate themselves.

"You accept challenge?" he countered.

Jellico merely repeated his question and Kallee beckoned forward one of

his men.

The Eysie who stepped up was no match for Kosti. He was a slender, almost

wand-slim young man, whose pleased smirk said that he, too, was about to

put something over on the notorious Free Traders. Jellico studied him for

a couple of long seconds during which the hum of Salariki voices was the

threatening buzz of a disturbed wasps' nest. There was no way out of

this--to refuse conflict was to lose all they had won with the clansmen.

And they did not doubt that Kallee had, in some way, triggered the scales

against them.

Jellico made the best of it. "We accept challenge," his voice was level.

"We, being guesting in Groft's holding, will fight after the manner of

the Salariki who are proven warriors--" He paused as roars of pleased

acknowledgment arose around the board.

"Therefore let us follow the custom of warriors and take up the net and

the knife--"

Was there a shade of dismay on Kallee's face?

"And the time?" Groft leaned forward to ask--but his satisfaction at such

a fine ending for his feast was apparent. This would be talked over by

every Sargolian for many storm seasons to come!

Jellico glanced up at the sky. "Say an hour after dawn, chieftain. With

your leave, we shall confer concerning a champion."

"My council room is yours," Groft signed for a liege man to guide them.