Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

Galbrene snarled, moved, and Dumarest felt his feet slip from the oiled skin. He settled them again on the other's insteps, his own arms circling the thick torso, fingers interlocking, the muscles of back, shoulders, thighs and loins straining as he fought the pressure which threatened to splinter his ribs and drive the jagged ends into his lungs. The constriction which, unless stopped, would snap his spine like a rotten twig.

"Kill!" The shouting was another thunder to add to the roar in his ears. "Kill!"

Galbrene was strong, but his head was being bent backwards and his back arched as he yielded to the pressure. A loss of leverage which alone was saving Dumarest's life. One which the other could regain by throwing himself down, twisting free his head, using his legs and massive arms to their full advantage.

Dumarest felt him shift, felt a foot slip from where it rested, the other as Galbrene jerked back his legs, sensed the coming jerk which would free the trapped head. Releasing the grip of his arms he sagged, turned limp as if stricken land then, as Galbrene shifted his own grip and moved his head, Dumarest lifted up a knee in a savage blow at the groin.

Had it landed as he intended it would have killed, as it was the knee hit bone as Galbrene twisted, slid up over the stomach to be trapped as again the enclosing arms exerted their pressure. Dumarest sent the other to join it and rode for a moment with both legs doubled, knees resting against Galbrene's stomach and then, with an explosive release of energy, he burst clear and was hurtling backward to land on the sand, to roll, to spring to his feet and dart in again to the attack.

To pause as Galbrene swayed.

A momentary pause made in order to gauge the situation. The man looked dazed, turning vaguely so as to present his blind side towards Dumarest. An advantage only a fool would waste.

"In, Earl! In!"

Dephine's voice, high, shrill and close. During the fight they had moved to where she sat on the lower tier, now leaning forward, both hands extended before her, the fingers pressed together and pointing into the arena. A thing Dumarest noticed before he reached his opponent and sent his hands to do their work, the stiffened edges crashing against vital centers, repeated blows delivered with blinding speed which sent the man slumping to the ground.

"Kill!" screamed Dephine. "Kill him, Earl!"

But there was no need. Galbrene was dead.

Chapter Eleven

The chapel was as he remembered, the gloom dispelled only by the tiny flames of the vigil lights illuminating the broken weapons, small patches of brightness to reveal the sacred things. A custom Dumarest could understand; each man had his sacred thing, something set apart in a special place or carried like a vision in heart or mind. For some it was a scrap of cloth, a gem, a faded image, a tender memory. For himself it was an entire world, his home, Earth.

"Earl?" Navalok rose from where he had been kneeling his face taut in the glimmering light. A face tense with strain and marred by envy. "I saw you fight," he said. "They didn't know I was there but I managed to sneak in and stay out of sight until the battle had commenced. Twice I thought he had you but both times you recovered to gain the final victory." He added, wistfully, "I wish I could fight like that."

"A wise man doesn't need to fight at all," said Dumarest.

"You aren't wearing his badges." The luminous eyes examined the plain tunic. "It is your right to wear them, Earl. They will tell all of your prowess. Didn't they offer you the badges?"

The badges, the gun, some items of personal jewelry which he had taken.

"And the gun," said Navalok. "Why aren't you wearing a gun?"

"I haven't the right."

"But-" The boy paused, frowning. He was troubled at the contradiction; Dumarest had killed an armed adult in fair fight and by the custom all the man owned in the way of personal gear was his as the spoils of victory. And yet he, a proven fighter, carried no gun. No visible and accepted proof of his manhood.

"The gun was proof of Galbrene having won his trophy," said Dumarest. "It was his trophy, not mine. Until I gain my own I have no right to carry a gun. Isn't that the case, Navalok?"

An appeal to his knowledge. An adult talking to him as if he were an equal. A red tide of pleasure rose to suffuse the pale cheeks.

"Technically you are correct, Earl. A small point, perhaps, but one of importance. To defy the custom would be to invite challenges and there could be many who would be eager to prove themselves." He spoke like an old man who has spent too many years breathing the dust of books. "In any event gaming a trophy would be, for you, a mere formality."

Again the envy, the wistful longing, emotions too long repressed and triggered into stinging wakefulness by his sight of the recent combat.

Dumarest said, "How would I go about it?"