Deathsworn Vol. II

8 - The Cold Light of the Storm

The Congana stalked amongst the Ooamanee as Bard had seen wolves stalk wounded deer, their authority hanging dense in the air. Their subjects huddled like wary prey, averting their eyes and beseeching powers divine that the predators stay their hands.

Bard rose unsteadily to his feet and immediately beckoned Pot to his side. "Can you understand them?" he murmured.

Pot didn't answer, but Bard felt him shuffle within range. There was silence for a time, the Congana assimilating themselves, invading space and examining the Ooamanee, man, woman and child, as though they were livestock at a market. The fire hissed and crackled as it continued to lick the remnants of the nightcat's corpse.

"Abekki Ooamanee!" one of the Congana cried out. He wore no armour, the sleek muscles of his thorax shining in the firelight. A steel-tipped spear was gripped in his right hand, raised high above hair black as jet. As with the others, a bone of sorts had been pushed horizontally through his nose, an inch or so of white to be seen jutting from either side. "Kanee watchak hurda. Oweki Congana, abooso watchakai anasoo!"

"Men of Ooama," Pan muttered, "see us and despair. For we are the Congana. We are the sons of conquerors."

"Ama Farai, terra basi Nagay. Ibbimbi morra boono, taaka!"

"I am Farai, my father was Nagay. Any who would die at my hand, come forward." Pot shuffled. "He's challenging the men."

Not a soul stirred. Umitti and his monkey looked as though they were carved of stone. Iggo and Utchaka bowed their heads. Of Pono, there was no sign. Bard only thanked the Elders that Taaj couldn't understand a word of what was being said. The Zaffaarian never could say no to a fight.

Farai looked as though he might proceed to usher another challenge, but then his eyes fell upon Bard and his posture changed. He approached with his back to the fire, a creeping silhouette characterised by contentious eyes. When he was well within range he halted, devouring Bard with what looked to be incredulity.

Bard held the Islander's gaze, but the calm was a façade to blanket the turmoil of his thoughts. The spear concerned him most. That, and the fact he was without arms or armour. Bodkin's out there somewhere in the dark, he reassured himself, he'll be watching. He'll be waiting with a shaft nocked. If that shaft was loosed, of course, it would mean a bloody skirmish. And most likely our bloody deaths.

Farai began addressing the Ooamanee again, and Pot leaned in deftly. "So, it's true ... you dogs feast with pale men now?"

Utchaka, the one-eyed elder, stepped forward in protest, but he managed less than two words before one of Farai's warriors smashed his crown with the butt of an axe. The blow was so fierce that Utchaka's legs buckled beneath him. He fell silent after that.

"We come only for what you owe," Farai continued, unperturbed, "but you spit on Shar Agma. We come only for fish, for meat, for fruit and for pelts, but you spit on Shar Agma. Shar Agma is fair, but you spit on him ... so now Ooama must bleed." His eyes met Bard's and he smiled wickedly. A host of his teeth had been filed into sharp points. Then, in one deft move, sudden as a fork of lightning, Farai grabbed Kwarni and tossed him to the floor. He exchanged his spear for a rusted axe, and pointed said axe at Bard. "Orook ganai palanka."

"You know the punishment for trading with pale men," Pot whispered.

Farai dragged Kwarni to his knees. Tears streamed freely down the boy's face. Like a rabbit caught in a snare his eyes darted, from Kana to Bard and back again.

Bard fought the instinct to move forward. His body yearned to take action, but somewhere beneath his mind's tumult a voice told him it was folly. You are one against twenty, and unarmed.