Split Bone had learned from Dead Teeth’s short and bitter experience. He’d used his first charge to gain the more open ground behind the guardian posts and now leaped and thrust with his macuahuitl.
For the moment, Fire Cat played it safe, saving his energy, letting Split Bone charge, leap, and sidestep—his movements almost a Dance. Each time Split Bone struck, Fire Cat skillfully blocked the macuahuitl’s keen edge with the oversized buffalo shield. Split Bone kept darting, feinting, and circling as he sought an opening. As he did, a sheen of perspiration coated the Itza’s face. The man’s breathing had started to labor.
In the background, the Itza shouted advice, their effort almost drowned by the screaming Natchez who shook fists and spit anytime Fire Cat got close.
If Horn Lance doesn’t keep them back, this will all be over.
That was the desperate gamble. And so far, Horn Lance had kept it, shouting orders when the Natchez started to crowd the combatants. Each time he did, his gaze went to the throngs of people perched on the Morning Star’s mound, the ones peering over the mound edge, and the ones clogging the avenue.
Yes, he knew his Cahokians well. And what it would mean to his tenuous position if his side cheated.
With each attack, Fire Cat had studied his opponent. Split Bone liked to thrust, and each time Fire Cat deflected it with the shield, the Itza tried to drop the point low, snapping it back in an attempt to slice Fire Cat’s leg.
Again he tried, leaping forward, thrusting low. The instant he was fully extended, Fire Cat swung. Not at Split Bone, but at the macuahuitl. His weight behind it, the ax struck the flat of the blade and drove the macuahuitl down. When the ground stopped the tip short, the blade snapped in two with a crack.
Split Bone leaped back, eyes wide, holding his handle. Panting, he backed as Fire Cat advanced.
“Hold!” Horn Lance bellowed. “He is disarmed!”
“We didn’t agree to that,” Fire Cat returned.
Not that it mattered. One of the Natchez leaped from the crowd, offering Split Bone a war club.
“Foul!” Fire Cat declared.
“Live with it, slave. Call it new rules.” Horn Lance crossed his arms.
Split Bone wasn’t good with a war club. He made a novice’s mistake, figuring the stone-headed club’s mass gave him an advantage. With a desperate leap, fear bright in his eyes, he used both hands to swing. The club thumped into the shield, stinging Fire Cat’s arm with its impact.
As the Itza staggered to recover, both arms extended, Fire Cat’s copper blade sliced into his unprotected neck at the angle of the shoulder. The keen edge lodged briefly in the vertebrae. Fire Cat wrenched it free as Split Bone fell limply to the ground.
Even as the dying Itza warrior gasped and quivered, Fire Cat bellowed, “I challenge Shaking Earth to individual combat! My life against his. All that I own against all that is his! Is the Itza a coward, or will he face me?”
A howl—as if torn from a thousand wolves—went up from the crowd as news of both his victory and challenge was passed.
Over the roar, Fire Cat barely heard Horn Lance turn to the Natchez and say, “Kill him. Now. Make it look like you just lost your heads.”
Fire Cat, throat dry, watched the Natchez warriors glance back and forth. Deadly smiles crossed their lips, but only five of them started forward, hands clenching war clubs. Their eyes had an almost dazed look, like feral and trapped beasts.
“He’s killing you,” Fire Cat cried. “When it’s all over, he’ll give you up, say that he tried to stop you! You’ll hang in the squares!”
But on they came, heads lowered, grinning in anticipation.…