Chapter 33

Turuk Hollow was a slight depression in a narrow pass. It had a tall hill to the south, and a cinder cone to the north. The seating was massive blocks of granite. Between the seats there was a piece of bare ground. It was packed clay, without a sign of a rock or a plant anywhere. Chun had expected a spectacle. Instead, he found four dozen people.

“My mother’s family ruled the valley to the west,” Montague said. “More than once over the last thousand years a brave soul, or small group of brave souls, have stood on this ground and saved their land and their families.

“We are the accused, so we sit on the north side, in the ashes as it were. I wish I could fight today, but Heyerdahl is far beyond my abilities.”

To the west Chun could see that the valley opened up into a plain of grassland with trees on the slopes, and houses here and there. To the east the ground was rocky and covered in scrub, but still beautiful. There was a tent fifty yards east of the arena, and Chun could sense Heyerdahl and Archibald inside.

The attendees all appeared to be wealthy. There were two in their twenties, but the average age was closer to sixty.

“Who is here?” Chun regarded the crowd.

“The heads of the ruling houses,” Montague said.

“Is it significant that all of them have chosen to sit on the south side?”

“I’m afraid it is. With no support we will not have an orderly transfer of power, should we lose. They will come in a flood, and no quarter will be given,” Montague said.

Countess Perabo put her hand on his. “Courage, Daral. We have the allies we need.”

He squeezed her hands. “I wish you had not insisted. If you left, you would not be part of my family.”

She smiled at him, sadly. “You should know I cannot do that. This is our path. We will tread it together.”

“What happens if we win?” Annabeth glared at the figures beyond.

“Then Daral retains his place at the head of the table,” Perabo said. “Things will be shaky for a time, but success attracts followers.”

Someone on the far side gasped, and all heads turned east. Heyerdahl stepped out of the tent. He was dressed somewhat like Chun, in good trousers and boots, with no shirt. Where Chun carried the emperor’s jian, Heyerdahl carried a greatsword slightly longer than he was tall. In his offhand he carried a longsword. The choice would have looked comical on someone smaller. He stalked to the center of the arena, where Mont Clair and Janson waited.

“You should go too,” Montague said.

Chun walked to the center, putting the referees between himself and Heyerdahl for as long as possible.

“Mr. Heyerdahl,” Mont Clair shouted, “you have come today to press your claim that Montague has unjustly attempted to destroy your family. This contest is the final arbitration on the subject. Do you agree?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Montague, you contend that your assault on Heyerdahl was necessary. This contest is the final arbitration. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Heyerdahl, this combat is to death. Do you agree?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Mr. Chun, you are here as Montague’s second. This combat is to death. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Seconds, do you agree?”

“Yes,” Archibald shouted.

“Yes,” Annabeth said from beside Montague.

Janson backed to the south, and Mont Clair backed to the north. “Fighters, take your positions.”

Heyerdahl lifted his massive blade into a forward guard, and his sidearm to low guard. “You should have joined us, little man.”

Chun drew his sword and switched it to his left hand. “I am Chun.”

“Soon you will not be,” Heyerdahl said.

“Fight.” Mont Clair shouted over the crowd.

Chun turned and ran. His breath flowed, left leg, right leg, left, right. The sword dragged him forward, adding to his speed.

“Coward.” Heyerdahl roared behind him.

The arena floor was forty yards north to south, and sixty yards east to west. Chun reached the edge in a few seconds and skidded to a stop, then turned to face Heyerdahl. Janson trotted over.

“What are you doing, Mr. Chun? This is a duel, not a race.”

Chun chuckled at him. “I fear you are mistaken, Mr. Janson. This is a slow race. Last one to die wins.”

“Excuse me?”

“I read the rules,” Chun said. “If I run from the field, I can be summarily executed.” He looked around. “I am still on the field.”

“Then what is your plan?” Mont Clair asked as he joined them.

“Simple. Once we have taken the field, we may not have any outside items. No extra weapons, no food, no drink. I will outlast Heyerdahl. Three days from now he will be dead.”

Heyerdahl shook his head. “You seek to do through cowardice what you cannot accomplish with courage.”

Chun turned to Janson. “We are mortal enemies. Why does he think his judgement matters to me?”

Heyerdahl took a few loping steps toward Chun, then burst into a sprint. Chun waited until the last instant, then lunged to the right and pulled hard to the left with his sword. Heyerdahl took the feint and went right, greatsword slicing the air an inch from Chun’s ear. He was unable to stop and skidded into the grass beyond the arena floor.

“He left the field,” Chun said and pointed to Heyerdahl’s feet. “I request summary execution.”

Janson glanced at Mont Clair in open mouthed consternation. Heyerdahl growled as he turned. Then he charged. Chun ran, and with the sword pulling him he ran faster than he had ever run before. Heyerdahl still closed the gap by the time they reached the center of the arena.

Chun changed directions, looping around as Heyerdahl tried to stop and turn. His sword flicked out and he got a shallow cut in the giant’s hamstring, then leaped clear as the greatsword flashed through the air at him.

“Coward. Face me.”

Chun backed up a few more steps, and when Heyerdahl stayed put, Chun pulled the stopper out of his canteen and took a swallow of water, then replaced the stopper.

Heyerdahl glared at him. “You think you are clever, Little Rabbit, but a few drops of water will not save you.”

He slid his longsword into its scabbard, shouldered the greatsword, and trotted at Chun. Chun turned and jogged down the edge of the arena, past Montague and company. When he turned to run south along the edge, Heyerdahl cut across, forcing Chun to run farther and faster to remain ahead.

Chun managed the next corner and jogged past the seating on the south side to jeers. “Coward.” “Rabbit.” “Yellow.”

At the corner Heyerdahl cut too much, and Chun escaped by reversing course to run by the south seating the other direction. A man in the stands stood and hurled an apple at his head. Chun caught it and held it out to Janson.

“I know I cannot receive outside aid, but this is from an enemy. Can I eat it?”

Janson raised his hand at Heyerdahl. “Stop.”

“What is this?” Heyerdahl growled.

“One of your supporters has interfered,” Janson said. “Peter and I will decide how to deal with it. Until we restart the fight, you may not move.” He turned to the man in the seats. “Manny, if you cross the border of the arena again, I will kill you, right then.”

“I do not need help,” Heyerdahl said, glaring at Manny.

“Silence,” Janson snapped his fingers at Heyerdahl. “Contestants may not interact with the crowd.”

Mont Clair joined them, and the referees put their heads together for a moment. Then Mont Clair walked to Chun.

“Mr. Chun, return the apple,” Mont Clair said.

Chun raised an eyebrow. “I can throw it back?”

“You are required to throw it back,” Mont Clair said.

Chun funneled breath into his arm and shoulder, wound up, and hurled the apple at Manny. It exploded against his face and knocked him unconscious.

“Very good, Mr. Chun,” Mont Clair said. “Fighters, resume.”

Two more laps around the arena and Chun sensed that Heyerdahl was ready to try another burst of speed. Chun rounded the corner, and Heyerdahl angled across the corner, kicking himself into a full sprint.

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Chun turned toward him, accelerating as hard as his legs could push and the sword could pull. The greatsword lashed out in a flat arc at knee height. Chun dropped onto his back and rolled. Heyerdahl tried to stomp him and missed, and Chun’s sword bit through the giant’s heavy boot and into his right shin.

The greatsword whistled around in a high arc and slashed downward. Chun used the sword to drag himself out of the way and regain his feet, then they were off again.

Three more laps, and Heyerdahl slowed gradually each lap. He developed a faint but noticeable limp.

He’s pretending to be disabled. He will try to surprise me by pushing hard with that leg.

Chun approached the corner and Heyerdahl took one step into cutting the corner. Chun reversed course, rushing straight at the giant. Heyerdahl pushed off with the wounded leg as he brought the greatsword down in an arch from his shoulder. Chun chopped down on the massive sword’s blade, driving it into the clay surface with even more force.

Heyerdahl’s arm stretched out behind him, trying to keep hold of his sword, but the point was driven in, and his great weight would not stop that quickly. He released the weapon and carried forward a few more steps while he drew his longsword.

Chun scabbarded his sword and ripped the greatsword out of the earth. It weighed about fourteen pounds. He swung it in a flat arc, aiming for the longsword, while appearing to aim for Heyerdahl’s chest.

The heavy blades crashed together. Chun threw his weight forward, sliding his blade along Heyerdahl’s, and opening a moderate cut across the giant’s left bicep. Heyerdahl growled, grabbed the massive blade in both hands, and tore it from Chun’s grip. Chun leaped past him, drawing his own sword again, and opening the distance between them.

Time for more laps.

The sun said it was noon.

* * *

Mont Clair ordered a stop, and he and Janson set up a small table of their own. They sat and drank watered wine and ate bread and cheese. Chun sat at the west edge of the arena. Heyerdahl at the east.

Chun pulled his knife and dug into the clay. Once he had a hole about two inches wide and ten inches deep, he drew heat from the sun-warmed surface of the arena and funneled it into the bottom of the hole.

After a minute steam began to spout from the hole. Chun held his sword blade flat in the steam, with the tip angled down to his water bag. Drops collected on the metal, and then ran down the blade where they dripped into the bag.

“Is he allowed to do that?” Heyerdahl shouted to Mont Clair.

Mont Clair walked over and looked at the hole, then shook his head. “There is no rule against it.”

Chun smiled at Heyerdahl, pulled a piece of jerky from one of his pockets, and continued to fill his water bag while he ate.

“You let him make a mockery of our most sacred law, and now you let him rest and recover,” Manny shouted at Mont Clair. His face was black and blue, and his hand rested on a revolver at his hip.

“I will discuss it with Mr. Janson, Manny,” Mont Clair said, and went back to his table.

When Mont Clair and Janson finished their lunch, they packed their food up and returned the table to their car. Then they walked to the center of the arena.

“Fighters to the center,” Mont Clair called.

Chun’s water bag was slightly over filled. He drank several swallows of the tepid, leathery tasting water on his way to meet the referees and replaced the stopper as he arrived.

“We have had a complaint from the attendees,” Mont Clair said.

Heyerdahl snorted.

“You will be respectful of these proceedings, Mr. Heyerdahl, or you will find yourself fighting him and us,” Mont Clair said.

It was obvious to Chun that Heyerdahl wanted to invite them to do exactly that, but all he said was, “Yes, Mr. Mont Clair.”

“The rules specify that a fight begins and is only paused when the referees need to pause it. Typically, this is to explain a rule or to arbitrate something unusual. In this fight we recognize that Mr. Chun is leveraging the rules to gain an advantage we never intended. Nevertheless, we have allowed the fight to continue. It furthers his unintended advantage when we take breaks, therefore for the remainder of this contest we will take staggered breaks. You will have to make do with a single referee when one of us requires time off.”

“I approve,” Heyerdahl said.

“I am opposed,” Chun said.

“We don’t care,” Janson said. “This is how the dispute will go forward. Fighters, prepare.”

Heyerdahl’s grip on his greatsword tightened. Chun laced his water bag down and drew a foot-long wooden dagger from a sheath in his boot.

“Fight,” Janson said.

Heyerdahl surged forward, his greatsword sweeping out in front of him. Chun leaped forward, channeling breath into his legs and the sword in its scabbard. He hurtled over Heyerdahl’s head, and as the giant struggled to turn and face him again, he rammed the wooden blade into the muscles between Heyerdahl’s shoulder blades, then snapped the blade off.

Good luck getting that out without help.

He hit the ground and used the bottom of his boot on Heyerdahl’s backswing to propel himself out of reach. Then he resumed his laps.

Heyerdahl had a cut in his shin, and a significant splinter in his back that would hamper his breathing and arm motions. On the other hand, he seemed almost as impervious to pain as Chun. He trotted along, sword resting on his shoulder, and showed no signs of weariness or injury.

Janson trotted along beside Chun, on the outside of the arena surface. “You’re a magnificent swordsman. Why all of the tricks?”

“He is nephilim,” Chun said. “He will heal from most injuries, and he is far stronger than I am.”

“Nephilim, like the legends?” Janson’s eyes widened as he kept pace with Chun.

“Yes. If you attempt to kill him with your sword, you will lose,” Chun said.

“I had that feeling,” Janson said. “I’ll let Peter know.”

While he ran, Chun pondered what to do next. Heyerdahl was intelligent, and if Chun tried to repeat a trick the giant would know how to counter it. The real problem was that despite his enormous endurance, and his small store of food and water, Heyerdahl was likely to outlast him. While Chun ran long laps around the arena, Heyerdahl ran short laps.

Since he didn’t have a good idea ready to go, he thought through the problem, adding up his advantages and disadvantages.

The best way to kill nephilim was to lure them into the open and ambush them with archers. If that wasn’t viable, then you brought dozens of men onto the field with pole arms, surrounded them, and stabbed them to death.

They could be killed with massive quantities of poison, but that was forbidden here. Chun’s father had defeated one in a duel, but he had been lucky enough to sever a heel tendon in the opening minute of the duel. Chun had killed one in a duel, but he’d done it with acupuncture, and it hadn’t been Heyerdahl’s equal in any way--and despite that Chun had needed reconstructive surgery afterward.

Chun had his sword, a few knives, his food and water, and his skills. Heyerdahl was nearly immune to breath disrupting techniques. Extremes of temperature would bother him very little. Chun had seen a nephilim coated in burning oil ignore the fire and continue to fight.

Every time I dart in and cause a small injury, he learns about me. If I’m not careful I’ll teach him enough to beat me before I can pick him apart.

After a few laps Chun decided he might be devaluing his heat management skills too much. He drew on the heat underneath him and directed it toward the center of the arena. Perhaps if he could lower the temperature around the outside of the arena, and raise the temperature farther in, he could make it as though he were running in the shade, while Heyerdahl ran in the sun.