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Chapter 7: The Duel
Part 1
A fish jumped and a bolt twanged.
There was a tough thok! and a splash, then more splashes as the dying creature writhed in the river. Whooping children piled into the water, yelling and racing to collect the prize before other wildlife claimed it.
Frix and Callum watched, impressed, sitting on a fallen log near the bank. The guy who was using the crossdart was a marksman from a lesser triad’s family, but right now he was a temporary hero. He explained something about the rare weapon to the little congregation of admirers who had gathered around him.
“One day, I’ll shoot a crossdart like that,” said Callum. He pitched a rock into the river.
“Why not a sparker?” suggested Frix.
“You think I could?” Callum plopped down on the log, staring off into the distance.
“You’d have to become Head of Spark of a triad that has one, but that’s not that hard.”
Callum stuck out his tongue. “You’re older than me, dummy. You’d get it first.”
“Guess you’d have to get rid of me then, if you ever want a shot.”
“Not even Great Uncle Ottrah has a sparker…” Callum said, the fantasy crumbling.
“Well before you worry about sparkers or crossdarts, you’re going to want to practice aiming with this.” Frix took off his slinger and offered it to the boy.
“No way! Can I?”
“You’ll be in training next year, might as well get a head start.”
Callum gathered up the weapon and began to hunt for suitable stones along the riverbank. Somewhere further down the crossdart twanged again and the crowd sighed in awe. Frix shut it all out and lay back, watching fluffy clouds march their way across the sky.
He was trying to enjoy the day off, awarded to him by the bole-marshal for his work in completing the raid, despite the unorthodox approach. He was given a full three suns for the effort, but wanted to save a few for when Mossa got back from her sudden, mysterious mission.
The sloshing and gurgle of the water reminded him of the beach last night. He had not gotten much sleep after she left. His mind had whirled with a thousand strange thoughts, and their ghosts now teased his daydreams.
Something that the girlwitch had said—she with the enormous gold-green eyes—when she touched him and brought him into that red haze. What was it? A phrase, a thought, a feeling. It felt like something distant from a dream, fuzzy and half real. But he knew it was real. He had been there after all, and that pyre had lit up, they all saw the smoke. Something real had happened.
“They were right, they were right, send up the light?” Frix whispered it aloud. It sounded too singsong, but maybe that’s how the witches spoke to one another? The pattern of speech was locked up in the feeling. It wasn’t even words, it was…
“Hey! Ow! Stop!”
Frix sat up, recognizing Callum’s whining voice, usually reserved for him. Some distance down the bank, a pack of older boys advanced on his little brother. One had a slinger and used it to fire clods of hard packed mud at the little Bit.
“Duel! Duel! Slinger duel!” came the chant.
“Oh, Mother Root unsnare me,” cursed Frix. Typical Callum, finding himself a duel challenge within two minutes of wielding a seedblessed weapon. His little brother retreated on the double, which was sure to earn familial dishonour. Frix stood up, hoping the mudslinger’s weapon was some sort of second rate training armament. If it turned out that these boys were from any other triad but his, then it was going to be even worse. And it would be Frix’s fault for letting Callum walk around with his weapon.
“He’s gonna run!”
“Challenge! Challenge!”
“Duel!”
“Okay, okay!” shouted Frix, hustling over to the commotion. The little gang got even more excited, dancing all about, probably assuming he had come over to call the match. The mudslinger fired another clod, aiming too high in his glee. The dirt arced straight at Frix, who swung out his cudgel in a practiced swoop and swatted the missile to pieces. The gang stopped cold as the chunks rained into the river.
“Hey! You got me!” said one of the boys who had been chasing fish. He wiped some dirt off his cheek, and started to swim over. Some of his peers took notice.
“Oh great,” muttered Frix. He reached Callum, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
“I was just practicing, I swear,” said Callum.
“I know.”
The instigator, now recovered from Frix’s entrance, sauntered over. His crew flanked him. They were young Tel, all of them; the bright red beads in their hair gave them away.
“We,” the boy puffed up, “have a duel!”
“Duel?” said a newcomer from the river. Soon the crossdart marksman would lose his audience.
“Let me see that slinger,” Frix said.
The Tel kid recoiled for a moment, then, remembering protocol, surrendered it to Frix. He looked closely at the handle, where the two prongs came together. The seedblessing mark was there alright—a depressed oval, scorched and patterned around the edges.
“And lemme see yours, kid!” This was directed at Callum.
Frix’s brother looked like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Helplessly, Frix returned the Tel’s sling. One of the boys that had come from the river elbowed his way past Frix and grabbed Callum’s slinger.
“Seedblessed too!” the intruder announced. The Tel boys all cheered and started slapping palms.
“Duel! Duel! Duel!”
“What’s your name, dirtface?”
Callum sucked in some air. “C-callum of Bit.”
“Callum of Bit All-bit-tel, he who ran when accosted by threat, Vebba of Tel All-bit-tel challenges you to regain your merit! In the embrace of the Great Leaf, on the ground of the Mother Root, and by the blessing of the Father Seed!” Vebba leveled his slinger at Callum’s face, holding it out like a club. “What say you?”
C’mon kid. They’d been granted one piece of fortune in that these punks were from his own triad. Now Callum just had to say—
“I accept,” Callum said, raising Frix’s weapon. His grip was steady but his pale face betrayed him.
“And as his brother, I substitute,” said Frix. “He is untrained, and this is my slinger. Our family would demand a fair duel.”
There were general noises of disappointment from the growing crowd. Vebba looked shocked at first, but that soon dissolved into a mean sneer. Frix ignored him and gave Callum a prompting look.
“Oh, uh,” said Callum, “you, uh, hey! No! This is my duel!”
A great actor, Callum was not. But Frix supposed it was the show that mattered anyway.
“Okay, let’s go, Bit-boy!” Vebba brandished his slinger at Frix.
“He’s a Seedwind, Vebba,” one of his friends said.
“I don’t care! I can take him!” Vebba seemed a little less sure now, though he was better at a ruse than Callum. Frix shuffled on his feet, trying to figure out how he might end it fast without embarrassing the kid too much. Vebba was at least ten years his junior. Frix was beginning to realize that this duel was going to be even less fair than the one he had stopped.
“You should sub too!” shouted a spectator.
“Yeah!” chorused Vebba’s friends.
“Another Seedwind!”
“Sub!”
Vebba looked furious. “I can take him!”
“No you can’t, boy.” The crossdart marksman had at last come over to see what the ruckus was all about. Up close, Frix recognized him from the Fan-voo-hos triad—he wore the cylindrical wooden pegs of the Fan family along his belts. He met Frix’s gaze, and said, “Why you picking on him?”
“He was… it’s a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“Mhm,” said the crossdarter. “You should let him sub.”
“I agree, it’s him you’ll need to convince,” said Frix
The marksman turned back to Vebba. “You want to do right by your family? Then let a Tel Seedwind settle it instead of this brashness. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.”
Vebba looked ready to protest again, but a girl wiggled out of the packed crowd and whispered something to him. His eyes widened, and he said, “But I thought they were off?”
The girl shook her head. “Just the younger,” she said.
A wolfish grin grew on Vebba’s face. He looked back at Frix and the marksman, and said, “I have just the Tel Seedwind for the job.
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