Page 144 of Planet Zero
Qalae issued a soft keening noise. It was Oh’nil, and he seemed unharmed.
More men burst into the settlement after Oh’nil, two, three, and then many, pouring in like water. Women screamed and ran to meet them, mixing up with the warriors, making it harder to see who was who. Addie strained to see Zoark.
And right before her body threw in the white flag, she saw him. He came up toward the end of the crowd, slower than the others because of his leg, hair hanging down one shoulder, his flushed face preoccupied.
His bright eyes took in the village in front of him, and his steps slowed down. His eyes hardened and all expression was wiped off his face leaving behind cold fury.
Addie didn’t remember him coming over to the post. She knew nothing of his knife slicing through the ropes and couldn't feel his hands catching her floppy body, lowering her to the ground.
She came to when fresh Timpho grass juice poured over her lips, squeezed by Melmie’s hand.
She was lying at the bottom of the post to which Qalae was still tied. A strong pair of legs was firmly planted on the other side of her body, one slightly bent, shielding her from the chief and the High Counselor. Protecting her from the world.
“The punishment will run its due course.” She’d recognize this grating, haughty tone anywhere: Chemmusaayl, preaching to Zoark.
“She’s with child, you know that.” Zoark’s words came out strained as if he struggled to contain the violent temper that threatened to erupt.
“Her condition doesn't matter. She violated our order! And she’s weak and strange, not our kind. A child from her is not what the tribe needs.”
For a spell, Zoark didn’t speak, at a loss for words. “We need every child.Ineed this child,” he said hoarsely.
Addie saw his legs move as he turned. “Get ready to move!” he shouted at the tribe. “The Wrennlins got to the marauders before us, and their numbers are great. Signs of them erupting were all over the path we traveled. This place isn’t safe.”
The crowd rippled and murmured.
“Zoark,” Chief Net’ok’s voice rang with steel, “the decision to move the tribe is mine to make, as is the decision to let the women go. And both stay. Tie her up!” Net’ok ordered someone.
The someone came with more rope, and there was a brief scuffle as Zoark swiftly relieved the man of the roll. In the ensuing silence, the soft crunch of sand under Zoark’s feet as he approached the chief was deafening.
“Be it so,” Zoark said with determination and dropped the stone head of his black axe to rest on the ground like a death sentence. “I challenge you, Net’ok, for this woman, and for the right to make decisions, and for the right to lead the people. You fight me now or lose by forfeit.”
Chanting started. Men raised up and shook their weapons, tired from the road, hungry, worked up, and getting hotter at the prospect of watching the fight they knew would be spectacular. They encircled Zoark and Net’ok, who stood facing each other but far apart. They stomped their feet in tact with aggressive “chief, chief, chief” that became louder, faster, reaching a crescendo. It wasn’t a call for Net’ok but rather an urge for a chief-making contest. A challenge issued was the challenge accepted. If the sitting chief declined to fight, he was no longer chief.
Vuskas came to stand next to Net’ok. Oh’nil came up from behind Zoark and clapped him on the shoulder in a show of support. The High Counselor, supposedly a neutral party, hid behind the circle of the chanting warriors.
Addie struggled to sit up, dazed and disoriented. Qalae, trussed up at the post, watched Net’ok with the eyes that were hateful and full of pity at the same time.
“I get to choose the weapon,” Net’ok declared. He hesitated, eyeing Zoark’s axe.
“He favors the axe,” Vuskas advised, sizing up Zoark’s menacing form. “I wager he’s good with all weapons; they compensate for his handicap. Choose bare fists, chief. Your healthy body is your advantage.”
Addie crawled to the side to get a better view of Zoark from between the milling legs of agitated warriors.
Net’ok reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, revealing a chiseled chest and shoulders. His biceps flexed tightly, power running super-charged through his body. Zoark tossed his axe aside and followed suit. Women erupted in whispers, averting their eyes. It was his scars, Addie realized. His mangled right shoulder, especially, presented a dreadful picture where deep grooves of the healed slashes forever ruined the perfectly round swell of muscle.
Naked from the waist up, the two men were similarly impressive, except where the chief’s breathtaking expanse of muscle was smooth and light, Zoark’s more golden complexion was forever branded by scars, a testament of battles fought and won. Whatever the For thought about scars, right now Zoark’s were awe-inspiring. Addie saw it in the men’s changing looks, in the subtle deference displayed in their faces. All this power, so often tested but never conquered, intimidated.
“Where’s the High Counselor?” someone asked. “Chemmusaayl!”
The yellow-robed man shuffled in, tight-lipped and tense.
“You’ve got to call the fight,” Vuskas told him and peered closely. “Are you up to it?”
Chemmusaayl bristled. “Of course I’m up to it.”
He glared at Zoark malevolently, taking a stand in between him and Net’ok.
Addie’s heart started beating faster, and she once again felt faint, now from the abundance of blood rushing to her head. Ihr and Ehr found her on the ground and landed on her arm, with Ihr snuggling close. She clutched its soft fur and held on tight.
