Page 22 of Caveman Alien's Touch

“But I never throw it,” I object. “There’s never a need tothrowthe spear in the jungle. There’s no room! I only stab and thrust with it!”

“And you don’t always need to do even that,” Brak says thoughtfully. “Just do your best, brother.”

The boys come back, three of them reporting the same: four fingers’ width from the center.

“Your turn!” Brak slaps my back in a friendly way. The crowd looks at me with expectation. I might as well get it over with.

Taking up the same position that Unin’iz had, I heft the spear in my hand. It’s well balanced, and while the spearhead is dark and rusty in spots, I keep it pointy and sharp.

I aim, wind up, and throw.

The spear flies through the air, the back end of it making small circles as the shaft wobbles slightly the whole way.

It hits the rekh with a hardthack.

A murmur goes through the crowd, and the boys set off again.

“Wonderful!” Brak enthuses as he grabs my upper arm. “Your aim is just as true as his!”

Unin’iz glares at me, clearly not happy.

“I’m surprised,” I admit. “It’s the first time I’ve thrown a spear in years.”

“But you are always holding it in your hand,” Brak points out. “Your arm knows it so well that it can do anything with it. Even throw it.”

The boys run back to Sarker’ox. He frowns and interrogates them further before he raises his hand, demanding silence.

“Eleven fingers’s width!” he calls. “Tribesman Unin’iz is the winner of the first part of this game of penk!”

The cheer is deafening. This might mean more to this tribe than I thought.

And to me, as well. Now, I want to win.

The boys struggle with pulling my spear out of the target, and finally they need two adult warriors to get it out. It makes me childishly proud to see. That rekh would have died on the spot, if it had been real.

“That’s a dead rekh,” Brak echoes my thoughts. “Surely you must be the best spearman in our clan, Noker.”

“Sprisk is much better at throwing. He would have won this. Now we shall see how I do with speed.”

Again I look around the crowd, but the only women are Piper and Alba. Well, perhaps Bronwen is busy. I’m not going to ask about her, but I won’t deny to myself that I’m disappointed she’s not here to watch.

“The next part will show how fast our contestants are,” Sarker’ox announces. “Again, tribesman Unin’iz will be first to run around the track.”

The track consists of thirty round targets placed in a circle, with about twenty paces between each one. A pot with a tiny neck is filled to the brim with water.

Unin’iz gets ready to run, sword in hand.

A boy has brought his drum and stands over it with a wooden club in his hand.

“When you hear one drumbeat, start,” Sarker’ox says. “When you hear many, it means the time is up and you can stop.”

“Just get me started,” Unin’iz growls. “I’ll show the Foundling how a real warrior runs.”

Sarker’ox gives a signal, and the pot is placed upside down in a large, shallow one such that the water runs freely. The boy hits the drum with his club. Theboomis deep and loud as it echoes off the red Mount.

Unin’iz sprints to the first target and knocks it down with a quick slash of the sword, without even slowing down.

“Good hit,” Brak says knowingly, as if he’s watched many games of penk. “Let’s see if he can keep it up.”

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