Skehl felt himself relaxing despite being surrounded by so many enemy. No, not the enemy any longer. The Vyctore didn’t war with many outside the Nasuhl, and since that clan no longer existed, Skehl needed to learn to relax.
“Brothers, sisters,” the shaman spoke, his voice deep, commanding. “Welcome to the Cloud Games. Father Sun Krahl welcomes you.”
The crowd nodded their heads in respect.
The other shaman raised his hands. “And Father Sun Zehyl welcomes you.”
As one, the three rulers stood and clasped hands, and the tallest said, “Safety and peace to you all. At the Games, we allow no discord but for the competition. By the Maker, we shall feast and fight and enjoy the blessings of Ussed!”
A rousing cheer went up, the cacophony of sound both disturbing and welcoming. The numbness keeping Skehl apart from his brethren retreated as phelthar wound through his flesh and bones, tying him to the planet, to his clan, and more closely, to Arghet brushed up against him.
After a moment, the tide of belonging faded, and he sensed Arghet put a breath of space between them.
Ignoring the strange sense of loss, Skehl glanced around, noting the similarities and differences between the many clans. Skehl had no problem seeing past the heads in front of him as he looked around at the barbarians standing with them in the open field. Though most wore the traditional loincloth and boots, the females garbed in thin shifts or a loincloth and breast sash, many clans wore dyes on their bodies and faces, feathers or animal hides of adornment, and in some cases, piercings and ornamental scarring.
Not the Vyctore, though. They wore only their loincloths, boots, and arm-bracers. Nothing special. Skehl looked the same. Though taller than most except for a handful of males, Skehl blended in. Or so he liked to think.
Similar to Arghet and the others, he had skin tanned from the sun, skin-colored tribal markings on his chest and arms, long, black hair, and plenty of muscle and scars from a life lived for war. Unlike the Earthers and a few barbarians with obvious offworlder ancestry, he and his kind possessed white eyes with a golden center, no hints of other color or black at their focus.
But differentiating him from many, Skehl had been born with a dark tribal marker on his left cheek, one that sometimes turned a dark black or red, he’d been told. Skehl didn’t know when the color changed, but he’d often sensed some indefinable emotion and felt the mark heat in response.
“You paying attention?” Arghet said in a low voice as one of the elders continued to talk.
Skehl leaned down to hear better. Though Arghet was tall, Skehl stood a good head taller. So close, he caught Arghet’s scent, a robust, masculine essence that made Skehl feel…strange. He pulled his head back and stared straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at his companion.
“We have tonight to bed down and relax. Tomorrow morning starts the competition.”
Skehl said nothing.
“I need to ‘relax,’” Efhel said in a low voice. “I’m all knotted up.”
Tattan, a fellow warrior, laughed quietly. “Yes, I am as well. I think we should definitely find a few females to help us relax before the coming competitions.”
Nearby warriors from different clans, having overheard them, nodded in agreement.
“What about you, Arghet?” Tattan asked. “You feeling ‘knotted up’ too?”
“I’m keeping my head clear for the scitia match.” The scitia—a slender blade Arghet was famous for wielding.
“I don’t care about keeping my head clear,” a warrior from another clan added. “As long as my cock is no longer so stiff, my sword arm will be ready.”
The elder finished his speech, and more lurid comments from those around them had the group laughing. Even Arghet cracked a smile.
When Talzec and Skye joined them, the Vyctore moved as one to an unoccupied area by a small lagoon. Talzec nodded. “This is where we shall stay.”
The others began depositing the many sacks of goods they’d brought for trade and gift-giving. Among the clans, the giving and accepting of gifts, apparently, was welcomed at such a large event. It also showed everyone what clans had worth bargaining for.
A large male, his hair in braids and threaded through with colorful feathers, approached with a smile. “Ah, the Vyctore.” To Skehl’s eyes, that smile read false. The dozen warriors with the stranger stood tall and strong. One of them, a male almost too pretty to be a warrior, shot Arghet a sharp look.
“Fehlen.” Talzec took the male by the forearm and gripped him tight. “How fares the Chamra clan?”
Fehlen glanced from Talzec to his group, lingering on Skye before focusing again on Talzec. “Not as well as the Vyctore. Hear tell you have a female warrior as one of your mates, and you defeated the hated Nasuhl. Elder Ihlar was singing your praises.”
Arghet returned the sharp gaze directed his way, his expression flat, yet Skehl felt him ready to move at a moment’s notice.
Not liking the attention the Chamra alpha had given Skye, Skehl took a step forward at the same time Arghet did, protecting her sides while Talzec stood front of her.
Skye sighed and muttered something under her breath, but blocked from view by the larger men, she would need to physically push them aside to see anything.
