Vara explained that, just as the Azulings had once exchanged the wives of feuding tribal leaders before becoming a unified people, so, too, had the Osiri once had another way of settling disputes.
"Before the founding of the Inter-clan Council, fights for chieftainship of a clan were carried out through the Sacred Duel of Simbarra. He's their chief deity; usually depicted on rawhide drawings as a black-maned lion. Anyway; the duel was supposedly his brainchild. And, the sole survivor of each one fought was supposed to have divine m'ree-tah on his side."
"M'ree-tah?" echoed Sandy.
"A proto-Osiri word meaning both 'justice' and 'revenge.' Sort of a bloodthirsty 'aloha.' Anyway; once the Inter-clan Council was founded, the duel became redundant. All but fading away, completely."
"And, therein lies our best bet for ending this siege without anymore undue bloodshed," added Willek.
"Why not just let me grow to one hundred feet tall, and crush these guys underfoot?" asked Sandy.
Martin grinned: "Now I know why Landor is so fond of you. You think like a Wotani!"
Willek, however, shook his head: "The Osiri will keep up their attacks to the last man. This is the only sane option. Rojar? Get my white cane, and tie a white handkerchief to the bottom tip of it."
Two minutes later, Michael stepped out on to the front porch of the gatehouse; flag of truce in hand.
"Malagor! If you can hear me; I, Landor, challenge you to the Sacred Duel of Simbarra. Face me...if you're not a coward."
Malagor gritted his teeth, as he felt the eyes of his men burning into him.
"I deny your right to make such a challenge, mixed-blood! You're not even Plains-born!"
"But, I am, Malagor!" shouted Martin: "As son of Nahrog (the RIGHTFUL First Chief of Chiefs), I challenge you to the duel. And, I appoint Landor--my Brother-in-Arms--to fight in my stead. As is my right!"
He looked pointedly at the Osiri shaman as he uttered that last part. The shaman smiled and nodded.
"He speaks the truth, Malagor. Of course, as our acting leader, you have the same right. Where is your Brother-in-Arms? Where is Thotor?"
Malagor growled. He had temporarily forgotten the Osiri who had mysteriously vanished, after being struck by those strange metal darts.
"Very well!" he exclaimed: "I accept the challenge. May Simbarra take your rotten souls!!"
Martin gave his half-brother his own sword, explaining that it was just pro forma.
"Technically, it's my challenge. So, you have to use my weapon."
"No problem!" replied Michael: "Just so long as Malagor's blood winds up on it."
"And, if it doesn't?" asked Sandy, frowning worriedly.
"Then you can grow to a hundred feet tall...and stomp the shit out of them."
Sandy half-smiled, and gave him an impulsive full-on kiss for good luck. Whereupon, Michael took off his gray windbreaker and white shirt, before marching out to meet his other half-brother's murderer.
"Get ready to enter eternity, mixed-blood!" sneered Malagor.
"Kiss mine and up yours, gelding-breath," countered Michael. At which point, they began to circle each other. Like rival beasts of prey.
tbc
Giantess World
Author's Chapter Notes:
GOODSON ACADEMY GATEHOUSE,
OCTOBER 25, 2009
(12:12 A.M./EST)
OCTOBER 25, 2009
(12:12 A.M./EST)