Page 21 of Caveman Alien's Touch

I nod. “That has crossed my mind. We’ll see.”

“It may in fact be better if you lose and the Borok clan wins. It might make them more friendly towards us if they don’t think we’re any kind of threat to them.”

“But we’renota threat to them,” I point out. I know Brak — he’s just giving me an easy way to get out of the contest with honor.

“True, but they may not know it. At least, some of them may have doubts. Ah, there’s your opponent.”

Unin’iz saunters into the training area, his orange stripes looking so vivid that I wonder if he’s used paint on them to make them stand out. Maybe he’s not feeling so good after all the frit he had last night. Well, that may not make much difference. He doesn’t look sick.

Borok men flock around him, and soon they’re laughing, all looking at me. He must have told a joke at my expense.

“You look much stronger than him,” Brak says, his face darkening. “I wonder if that pitiful Borok triber can have any hope of winning. But he started this, so it’s only fair. Now I think you should try to win, Noker. Perhaps it’s better if the tribers fear us a little.”

“I will do my best,” I assure him. “Though it may not be enough.”

All the Borok men are here, except the guards at the gate. The atmosphere is tense, but cheerful. Piper is standing a little to the side, along with one of the other women. Bronwen isn’t here.

Sarker’ox calls me to him, along with Unin’iz. “Warriors, this is a friendly game. Let nobody be injured. The first part will test your accuracy. Throw your weapon at the target once. The weapon that hits the closest wins. Do you have your weapons ready?”

I show my spear. “Old, but solid.”

Unin’iz draws his sword in a quick motion that turns into a straight-armed slash right towards me, forcing me to jump backwards to not be hit by the tip as it whines past my stomach.

“Much older and much sharper,” Unin’iz drawls. “This is arealblade, Foundling. Have you ever seen one?”

I understand what he’s doing, because I’ve also played games when I was a boy. He’s trying to make me angry, because angry men are prone to making stupid mistakes.

“Not one like that,” I reply. “Did you spend all night polishing it?” His sword is unusually shiny, reflecting the sun in hard glints.

“I spent the night Mating with that woman you keep bothering,” Unin’iz says with a fake grin. “I forget her name. But she won’t forget me. I see she’s not here. She must be happily exhausted.”

His words are clearly meant to make me angry, but I only start to worry. Is Bronwen all right? Why is she not here?

“Let’s talk no more nonsense,” Sarker’ox says quickly. “I think the guest should have the honor of going first. Guest Noker?”

“I think thatI,” Unin’iz declares loudly, “as a complete man and a warrior and a tribesman with a normal head,withhair but without a ridiculous fin, should have every honor. Who objects to that?”

“Iobject,” Sarker’ox begins, his face going red. “Ijustsaid?— !”

“I thank you for the sentiment, Chief,” I hurry to say. “But I think Unin’iz is right. As a tribesman, he should go first.” The last thing I want is to be the first to throw my spear at that target. I need to see it done before I can try to follow it.

“Very well,” Sarker’ox says. “The first to throw his weapon at the target is tribesman Unin’iz. The game of penk has now started!”

The crowd cheers. I try to catch a glimpse of Bronwen, but I only see Piper and the woman called Alba.

Unin’iz takes up his position at a low wooden fence. The target must be about a hundred paces away, looking like a real rekh facing us. I have no idea how I can possibly hit such a small thing so far away. There’s a small splash of white in the middle of its narrow chest, and I assume it marks the exact middle.

Unin’iz throws his sword spinning straight up in the air, then catches it perfectly by the hilt. Whatever I thought about him having had too much frit last night has to be wrong. His hands look absolutely steady.

The sun glints off his sword as he aims, winds up, and then throws it. The blade rotates slowly before it hits the rekh with a distantbang.

The crowd cheers wildly as boys run to retrieve the sword and measure the distance from the hit to the center.

“I think that was a really good throw,” Brak says beside me. “At most ten finger widths from the middle.”

“It looked good,” I agree, my heart sinking in my chest. There’s no way I can get that close. “He must have practiced.”

“So have you,” Brak reminds me. “Every time you throw that spear, it’s practice.”

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