Chapter 8
Eight
Redmon
The challenge arena reeked of anticipation and blood.
Ancient stone formed a perfect circle, worn smooth by generations of combat.
Sunlight streamed through gaps in the canopy above, creating dappled patterns across the gathered crowd with mapinguari and humans alike, drawn by the rarity of an ancient challenge ritual.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the protective salve Kalyndi had applied tightening on my skin. The herb-infused mixture tingled, a constant reminder of what, who, I was fighting for.
Elder Sarrok approached. "This is foolishness, Redmon. You risk not just your body but your position. The council is already questioning your loyalty."
"Let them question," I growled, watching as officials from Magnus Terra took their places in the viewing stands. Their presence confirmed what I already knew. This was as much political theater as it was combat.
"The Fanghorns will use this to undermine you," Sarrok continued, his voice low. "Thorne has been waiting for such an opportunity."
I met the elder's gaze. "Some things matter more than politics."
"The human girl's sister?" Sarrok scoffed. "You would risk everything for that?"
Before I could answer, drums pounded, signaling the arrival of my opponent. The crowd parted, and my stomach tightened.
Gristholm of the Fanghorn Tribe emerged from the shadows, his giant body dwarfing even mine.
His hide bore the distinctive russet coloring of his clan, marked with ritual scarification that enhanced his already intimidating presence.
Where my kind evolved for forest stealth, the Fanghorns developed for pure, brutal strength.
"Still time to withdraw," Sarrok muttered.
I didn't respond, my eyes fixed on Gristholm as he entered the circle.
The Fanghorn warrior outweighed me by at least eighty pounds, all of it muscle.
His claws were longer than mine, specially honed for tearing flesh.
A ridge of bone spikes ran along his spine, extending when he rolled his shoulders in an intimidation display.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement in the human section. Kalyndi stood rigid, her face a mask of controlled fear as she clutched her sister's hand. Our eyes met briefly across the arena. In that moment, I understood with perfect clarity that I couldn't lose this fight.
The ceremonial horn sounded, calling us to the center of the arena. Gristholm's lips pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealing rows of yellowed teeth.
"War Chief Redmon," he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. "Come to die for a human pet?"
I stepped forward, keeping my stance relaxed despite the tension coiling in my muscles. "I come to invoke the Right of Tribal Protection under the Ancient Accords."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Rarely, anyone used the Right of Tribal Protection, a pre-war provision that allowed a tribal leader to challenge for guardianship of any being they deemed worthy of protection.
The ritual master, an ancient mapinguari whose hide had faded to gray with age, stepped between us.
"The challenge has been issued according to the old ways.
War Chief Redmon of the Sylvan Tribe invokes protection rights over Selene of the Western Terramares, currently matched to Gristholm of the Fanghorn Tribe. "
Gristholm's eyes narrowed. "I reject his right to challenge. The human was matched to me through proper channels."
"The Ancient Accords supersede modern matching protocols," the ritual master intoned. "As they have since the First Peace. Do you accept the challenge, or forfeit your claim?"
Pride would never allow a Fanghorn to forfeit. Gristholm's chest expanded with a deep breath. "I accept. To first blood or surrender?"
"To incapacitation," I stated firmly. "As the ancient rite demands."
Another ripple through the crowd. Incapacitation meant a fight that could easily turn lethal.
The ritual master nodded solemnly. "So be it. The terms are set." He raised his staff. "Challengers, speak your declarations."
I drew myself to full height, projecting my voice to reach every corner of the arena.
"I, Redmon, War Chief of the Sylvan Tribe, stand as protector of those who cannot protect themselves.
I claim Selene of the Western Terramares as a ward of my household, to be sheltered under my protection until such time as she chooses her own path. "
The formal words echoed in the sudden silence. From the corner of my eye, I saw Magnus Terra officials frantically consulting their tablets, clearly unprepared for this ancient protocol.
Gristholm's declaration was shorter, more brutal. "I, Gristholm, claim what is mine by right of matching. The human belongs with me, and I will tear apart any who say otherwise."
The ritual master stepped back. "The circle is sealed. None may interfere until a victor emerges." He struck his staff against the stone. "Begin!"
Gristholm charged immediately, his massive bulk moving with surprising speed. I sidestepped, barely avoiding his initial rush, feeling the wind of his passage against my hide. He pivoted faster than I expected, one massive arm swinging in an arc that would have taken my head off had I not ducked.
The crowd roared as we circled each other. I kept my movements economical, conserving energy while studying his patterns. Gristholm was power incarnate, but he telegraphed his attacks with subtle shifts in weight.
"Already running?" he taunted, feinting left before lunging right.
I blocked the blow with my forearm, pain shooting through the limb despite Kalyndi's protective salve. His strength was overwhelming. If he landed a solid hit, the fight would end quickly.
"I expected more from the famous War Chief," Gristholm continued, pressing forward with a series of heavy blows that forced me to give ground. "Perhaps you've grown soft living with your human mate."
I saw Kalyndi in the stands, her face tense with fear. The sight of her triggered something primal in me, not possessiveness, but a fierce determination to not let her witness my defeat.
Gristholm's next attack connected, his claws raking across my chest, drawing first blood. The crowd gasped. I staggered back, feeling warm liquid running down my torso.
"First blood to me," he gloated, displaying his bloodied claws to the crowd. "Soon to be last blood."
The pain cleared my head. I couldn't match him for strength. That path led only to defeat. I needed to fight smarter.
Kalyndi's words from the night before echoed in my mind: "The Fanghorns rely on overwhelming force. They've never needed to develop technique or strategy."
I altered my stance, adopting the lower center of gravity my father had taught me. Gristholm charged again, and instead of evading, I stepped into his attack, using his momentum against him. My shoulder connected with his sternum, and I twisted, sending him stumbling past.
Before he could recover, I struck at the vulnerable point where his neck met his shoulder, a pressure point unique to our kind. He roared in pain and surprise, one arm temporarily numbed by the precise blow.
"First technique to me," I said quietly, circling away from his enraged counter-attack.
Gristholm's fighting style grew more reckless as his frustration mounted.
He launched a barrage of powerful but increasingly predictable attacks.
I evaded most, absorbed others, and countered when openings appeared.
Each exchange left both of us bloodied, but I was targeting specific points while his attacks overwhelmed.
"Stand still and fight like a true mapinguari!" he bellowed after I slipped away from another charge.
"I am fighting like a true mapinguari," I replied. "Just not a Fanghorn."
The insult struck home. With a roar that shook the arena, Gristholm abandoned all pretense of technique, launching himself at me in a berserker rage.
His claws raked my side, tearing through hide and into flesh beneath.
Pain exploded through my body, but I used his momentum to flip him over my hip, sending him crashing to the stone floor.
The impact would have stunned most fighters, but Gristholm was back on his feet almost immediately, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds but seemingly unaffected. My own injuries were fewer but deeper, and I could feel my strength ebbing with each heartbeat.
Our eyes met across the circle, and I saw the confidence in his gaze. He knew he was winning through attrition. Soon, blood loss would slow me enough for him to land a finishing blow.
I risked a glance toward Kalyndi. Her face had gone pale, one hand pressed against her mouth. Beside her, her sister trembled, tears streaming down her face as she watched what she believed would be my defeat, and her condemnation to life with the Fanghorn.
Gristholm charged again, but this time I stood my ground. At the last possible moment, I ducked under his swing and drove my fist upward, my claws coated with the special paste Kalyndi had prepared. The one she'd warned me to use only in desperation.
The paste contacted the soft tissue under his jaw, immediately absorbing into his bloodstream. Gristholm's momentum carried him past me, but his next step faltered. He turned, confusion replacing rage as the herb mixture took effect.
"What have you done?" he slurred, his massive body swaying.
"Winning through intelligence rather than brute force," I answered, circling him warily.
The paralytic herbs worked quickly. Gristholm's movements grew uncoordinated, his limbs responding sluggishly to his commands. Still, his raw power made him dangerous, even in this compromised state. When he lunged again, his blow caught me across the shoulder, sending me spinning to the ground.