ritually.
The other bowed. "Bakh be chief. Malk old. No good now."
Malk seemed to smile. He never lost his aura of superiority, and that had to be unsettling to the chal-lenger. This may be primitive, but it is subtle, Walters decided. The old chief knew psychology.
"Bakh show white hair," the chief noted, trading age insult for age insult. "Bakh lose, cost be high. No man no more."
Mac puzzled over this for a minute. Obviously you were allowed only so many challenges no matter what, and Bakh was down to his last one. Did the remark mean that he would be killed if he lost?
Whatever it meant, the comment seemed to in-furiate the challenger. "Oh?" he sneered. "Then Bakh say same to Malk."
Walters understood now that they were setting the terms of the fight beyond that prescribed by the law of the tribe. This was not standard, then-they were upping the stakes. These men must hate each other a great deal, he decided.
"Balch say Malk be slave of woman, do woman work to death-sleep," the challenger added.
A little of the confident veneer wavered just a mo-ment in the chief's demeanor, but he quickly recovered. Mac realized with growing fascination that this was a war of nerves, that they were adding promise of a horrible existence on top of horrible existence to the loser. You could back out, probably, up to the mo-ment of the fight-although you probably lost your honor and therefore all you owned. He wondered how many fights for top spots ended without a blow being struck.
The chief nodded to his challenger. "Bakh same," he replied in a tone that added the "of course"
not in their language.
They went on a bit longer, until finally there seemed nothing else to threaten. It was over. Both men nodded acceptance of the terms and turned to the slaves and the old woman, who nodded back indicating that they had heard the exchange, understood it, and would see the challenge carried out. Then the men turned back to face each other.
"Fight," the chief said, totally without expression-and it was on.
The two men warily circled each other and the weapons for a while, each trying to feel the other out. Suddenly Bakh, the challenger, darted in and grabbed a club. Malk laughed and circled the challenger, stand-ing amid the weapons pile. As long as Bakh held that position, the old chief could not get a club or axe or spear himself, but he really didn't have to. It was the challenger's job to beat him, and he was content to wait for the attack. There was no time limit, judges, or referees here. The chief could afford to wait.
"Malk coward!" sneered Bakh, lowering the club a little. "Malk no want fight Bakh. Malk old, be old woman!"
The taunts were obviously designed to provoke an angry and unthinking reaction, but the old chief hadn't gotten to where he was by being stupid. His self-control, in fact, appeared almost complete.
Bakh suddenly realized this and switched tactics. He shifted the club to his left hand and picked up a spear carefully. The object was clear to all: a spear could be thrown.
But while he shifted and leaned down to get the spear, there was a momentary pause when his eyes moved, ever so briefly, off the old chief.
Malk saw it and leaped, his body ramming into the other man with much force and causing both to go sprawling. They are quick, that's for sure, Mac thought. Somehow, as he crashed into the challenger and rolled, the chief had managed to pick up an axe.
Like expert gymnasts, they were on their feet in moments. Bakh had lost his bid for the spear, but the club had dropped near him and he picked it up quickly.
Malk stepped back, letting Bakh press in on him, taking the challenger away from the now-scattered weapons. He felt the axe in his hand, tested it for balance, right hand still at his side.
Bakh's strategy was obvious-he was pressing the old chief against the canyon wall. Malk realized it, too, and decided to move. With a deft action the axe flipped underhand from his hand directly at the head of
The other bowed. "Bakh be chief. Malk old. No good now."
Malk seemed to smile. He never lost his aura of superiority, and that had to be unsettling to the chal-lenger. This may be primitive, but it is subtle, Walters decided. The old chief knew psychology.
"Bakh show white hair," the chief noted, trading age insult for age insult. "Bakh lose, cost be high. No man no more."
Mac puzzled over this for a minute. Obviously you were allowed only so many challenges no matter what, and Bakh was down to his last one. Did the remark mean that he would be killed if he lost?
Whatever it meant, the comment seemed to in-furiate the challenger. "Oh?" he sneered. "Then Bakh say same to Malk."
Walters understood now that they were setting the terms of the fight beyond that prescribed by the law of the tribe. This was not standard, then-they were upping the stakes. These men must hate each other a great deal, he decided.
"Balch say Malk be slave of woman, do woman work to death-sleep," the challenger added.
A little of the confident veneer wavered just a mo-ment in the chief's demeanor, but he quickly recovered. Mac realized with growing fascination that this was a war of nerves, that they were adding promise of a horrible existence on top of horrible existence to the loser. You could back out, probably, up to the mo-ment of the fight-although you probably lost your honor and therefore all you owned. He wondered how many fights for top spots ended without a blow being struck.
The chief nodded to his challenger. "Bakh same," he replied in a tone that added the "of course"
not in their language.
They went on a bit longer, until finally there seemed nothing else to threaten. It was over. Both men nodded acceptance of the terms and turned to the slaves and the old woman, who nodded back indicating that they had heard the exchange, understood it, and would see the challenge carried out. Then the men turned back to face each other.
"Fight," the chief said, totally without expression-and it was on.
The two men warily circled each other and the weapons for a while, each trying to feel the other out. Suddenly Bakh, the challenger, darted in and grabbed a club. Malk laughed and circled the challenger, stand-ing amid the weapons pile. As long as Bakh held that position, the old chief could not get a club or axe or spear himself, but he really didn't have to. It was the challenger's job to beat him, and he was content to wait for the attack. There was no time limit, judges, or referees here. The chief could afford to wait.
"Malk coward!" sneered Bakh, lowering the club a little. "Malk no want fight Bakh. Malk old, be old woman!"
The taunts were obviously designed to provoke an angry and unthinking reaction, but the old chief hadn't gotten to where he was by being stupid. His self-control, in fact, appeared almost complete.
Bakh suddenly realized this and switched tactics. He shifted the club to his left hand and picked up a spear carefully. The object was clear to all: a spear could be thrown.
But while he shifted and leaned down to get the spear, there was a momentary pause when his eyes moved, ever so briefly, off the old chief.
Malk saw it and leaped, his body ramming into the other man with much force and causing both to go sprawling. They are quick, that's for sure, Mac thought. Somehow, as he crashed into the challenger and rolled, the chief had managed to pick up an axe.
Like expert gymnasts, they were on their feet in moments. Bakh had lost his bid for the spear, but the club had dropped near him and he picked it up quickly.
Malk stepped back, letting Bakh press in on him, taking the challenger away from the now-scattered weapons. He felt the axe in his hand, tested it for balance, right hand still at his side.
Bakh's strategy was obvious-he was pressing the old chief against the canyon wall. Malk realized it, too, and decided to move. With a deft action the axe flipped underhand from his hand directly at the head of
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