Shield of Strength: To harden the body and mind against attack from within or without.
Add equal parts ground bitterleaf, blue ginger, and silent barbshell. Also have the ingredients for the Cleansing of Scales on hand in case a bony shell appears on the recipient’s skin.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
With a steady drumbeat pumping in his veins, Ember wiped the sweat from his brow and regarded his opponent. The man across from him in the brawling circle, Divot, breathed heavily, but no other evidence of strain tensed his broad features. Ceremonial paint ran in rivulets down his neck and chest mixed with his sweat, but his eyes were bright. His waistcloth, however, was no longer pristine, but dingy with dirt. Evidence of the fierceness of the match so far. Ember grinned. This would be a good bout.
The two challengers circled one another, stepping lightly. The glow of firerocks illuminated the large cave, nearly all the way to its high ceiling and the tiny circle of daylight barely visible above. They were deep in the interior of the Mountain Mother, on neutral territory belonging to no clan. Whispers rising from the surrounding crowd reminded Ember of their presence, but he pushed the observers from his mind. He needed to stay focused to win this match—the blade of his father’s intense scrutiny threatened to pierce his skin. Not only was his own honor on the line, but that of the Night Snow clan as well.
Ember and Divot were well matched as warriors. And though the other man had a few knots of height on him and was a bit broader about the chest and shoulders, Ember had been training nearly since birth. If not formally, then informally as a result of his brother’s constant attempts to best him.
He rushed the larger man, grabbing him around the waist and sweeping his legs from underneath him, using well-practiced technique to bring him to the ground. Grappling eliminated Divot’s height advantage and longer arm-reach. The men wrestled, Ember trying to get his opponent into a submission hold, but Divot evaded and executed an impressive reversal, throwing Ember on his back. While Divot applied his weight to Ember’s bent knee, attempting to press him further into the ground and pin him, Ember’s other leg was free for a sweeping kick to the head. It knocked Divot back to allow Ember to escape the hold.
He jumped to his feet while Divot rose slowly. When the man faced him, a shiver of revulsion rippled through Ember. The kick had split Divot’s lip; he spat blood onto the sand underfoot.
Ember’s stomach roiled. He’d eaten no breakfast that morning, for this reason. Shame brought the noise of the crowd rushing to his ears. The scent of sweat and blood and dirt assaulted him, shattering his concentration. With the aid of a lifetime of practice, he clamped down an unforgiving manacle on his body’s reactions and his emotions.
A Cavefolk could not hate the sight of blood. It was absurd.
He steeled himself, not looking at the man’s red-tinged smile, instead staring aggressively into his eyes before ramming his shoulder into Divot’s chest. Soon they were caught in a clinch, arms locked together as they directed knee and elbow strikes. This close, the coppery scent of blood filled Ember’s nostrils. It tickled his gag reflex and caused his gorge to rise. All involuntary reactions he had long ago learned to smother with ruthless desperation. But wrangling his body under control distracted him for a fraction of an eye-blink. Long enough to fall victim to a knee directed at his ribs. The breath flew from Ember’s body. Divot took him to the ground hard, their momentum moving them right out of the sparring circle and into the spectators.
Cries of feminine shock and pain rang out. Hands pushed at him, and Ember rose to his feet. A chime sounded, indicating the end of the first round. Divot had recovered quickly and now stood in the circle, wearing a smug, ruby grin. Ember glared, his pulse racing in his ears, as the man laughed. Pushing him into the spectators was a sign of disrespect. He turned to see what damage had been wrought.
Several women were righting themselves, brushing dirt from their waistcloths, but one was still sprawled on the ground. She had taken the brunt of the force of him crashing into her and was a petite creature, with hair like midnight cascading down her back, loosed from the tight braid in which she usually kept it. If her skin tone hadn’t identified her, the hair would have—clan women kept their heads shaved, preferring instead to decorate their bare scalps with paint as a sign of beauty. The hair of the unclanned was kept long, never cut until their initiation.
“My apologies, Mooriah,” he said gravely. He bowed deeply and held out a hand to her.
“It is nothing. I am unharmed.” Her voice was like the gentle rhythm of a drum. It soothed whatever remained of his disquiet. She blinked up at him then extended her hand in return. He held his breath.
His calloused hand enveloped her soft skin. He gripped her gently, swallowing down the fireflies that had taken flight within him. Her weight was light, and she was back on her feet in no time. She blinked rapidly, staring at their joined hands for a moment before slipping out of his grasp.
Though he had known her all his life, never before had he touched her skin. Its rich shade was a deep contrast to his—to all of the Folk, who shared similar features. But she had been born Outside, the daughter of sorcerers, and brought to the live in the caves as a baby. The two of them did not run in the same circles, and since she was as yet unclanned, their interaction was prohibited.
She caught sight of something behind him and scowled. He turned to find Divot leering at them from his position across the circle.
“Ember,” Mooriah whispered. He spun back to face her. “Show that beast what the Night Snow clan is made of.” She flashed him a smile that hit him harder than any fist ever had. He nearly stumbled backward but managed to nod.
He had enough time to towel off and rinse his mouth with water before the break between rounds was over. Then he cracked his neck and fingers, trying to concentrate on his opponent and ignore the scent of cinderberry that had clung to her skin. He flushed, willing away the feeling of fluttering wings the interaction with Mooriah had left inside him and reached for his focus.
The chime rang, and the fighters circled one another. “Your discourtesy to women shows what manner of vermin you and Iron Water are,” Ember taunted.
Divot shrugged. “What courtesy do the low-ranked and unclanned deserve? Unlike Night Snow, we do not offer clan membership to Outsiders.”
“And your clan’s inferiority is well known throughout the mountain.” He lowered his head and charged.
Ember did not generally use anger to fuel him as his brother and father did. Though his temper was not a vicious fire like theirs, it still scared him sometimes. But he did use it to focus himself, to home in on his opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them.
Divot was a skilled fighter indeed, but Ember had much more to lose than just a bout. Expectation and the future of the clan were bound up in what was, on the surface, a simple game. He could not afford a loss today, and with Mooriah’s whispered words spurring him on, he fought with renewed vigor and drive. He was fully in the zone, blind to the rest of the world, and emerged minutes later to the ringing of the final gong.
Cheers went up, and the official stepped forward to drape him with ribbons and declare him the victor. The shaman of Night Snow, an ancient man called Oval, stood next to the chieftain of the clan, Ember’s father Crimson, both looking just as morose as always, as though the match had ended in defeat.
Crimson’s voice rose to echo against the cave walls. “Once again, Night Snow shows its superiority. Let all the clans be on alert, we will take on all challengers and prove to them that we cannot be bested!”
Cheers from Night Snow were joined by grumbles and jeers from the other clans gathered. Divot stood with the Iron Water chieftain, head lowered, no doubt being chastised for losing the match. Ember felt a twinge of sympathy for him. With the First Frost Festival coming up in just a week, this match was the pre-qualifier for the largest competition of the year for each clan.
Tensions between Night Snow and Iron Water, the two largest clans, were high and these nonlethal games were meant to diffuse it, though Ember wasn’t certain it was working. He’d certainly rather show his proficiency in the circle than have their people embroiled in a deadly war. He could only hope that his performance, and the opportunity these games gave for the chieftains to work out their differences, would be the key to peace.
As Crimson and Oval left the center of the circle, his father motioned for him to follow. Ember shot a glance at the section of the audience he’d fallen into but couldn’t glimpse Mooriah through the crowd.
Once ensconced in the side cavern that Crimson had at his disposal, his father whirled on him. “Your victory was solid, but how in the Mother’s name did he manage to roll you out of bounds? You lost your focus, and it could have cost you the match! Do not let it happen again.”
“Of course not, Father.” Ember dropped his head. The scent of blood still lingered in his nose, and he waged a constant battle to ignore it.
The echo of heavy footsteps entered the small cavern. That particular stomp could only belong to one person. “Well done, brother,” Rumble said, insincerity dripping from his voice. “It looks like it will be you and me facing one another in the festival.”
Ember met his brother’s cool gaze. Eyes of pale gold regarded him with barely concealed hatred. They were the same age, born in the same month to two different mothers. As the son of the Lady of the Clan, Crimson’s first wife, by tradition Ember should have been the heir, but Rumble’s mother effectively lobbied for consideration for her son. Had Ember’s mother been alive, she might have objected, but as it was, Crimson had kept the two in competition all their lives, holding the promise of heir to the chieftain’s seat over them.
“I look forward to besting you in battle,” Ember said.
Rumble raised a brow. “I do as well.”
Crimson grunted. “Come, we have matters requiring our attention. Try not embarrass me or the clan.” Rumble smirked before following their father out.
Ember grit his teeth. A match against his brother was what he’d expected, and victory would offer more than just bragging rights. Both men suspected that this, their twenty-fifth year, would be the year Crimson made his choice between them.
Ember needed to win, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the clan. The Mother only knew what horrors a chieftain such as his brother would bring down upon them.