“I have come back as I promised,” he began boldly. “The journey has been a long one. I have survived much danger and suffering but I am here and alive.”
“Alive? Yes, for a time,” said Totan in as honeyed a voice as a bear would be capable of. “We see that you have brought the Mammoth Man with you. The journey must have been too much for him. He appears to have shrunken. No doubt you can explain why.”
“Young he is but more than match for our best hunter,” Gonch replied without flinching. “None can equal his skill with the fling-stone. If you do not believe, try him.”
Everybody laughed, not with genuine humor but in the only way these savage men knew how to laugh. One of them, a young fellow barely out of his teens, strutted forward and sneered in Kutnar’s face. Up to this time, the latter had remained a passive listener and spectator, staring curiously at the throng but at the sound of taunting laughter and the sight of him who sneered, he drew back and scowled angrily.
“A match!” roared the hetman springing to his feet. “Into the cave, every one of you, and give the youngsters plenty of room. Let the Stone Thrower try him. If he fails, I will be the first to pick his bones.”
Thus cautioned, the Castillan tyro selected his best stone and placed it carefully in the cleft end of his fling-stick. Kutnar did not hesitate, even though this was his first test in single combat. In a moment he saw what was expected of him. Quick as lightning, he unwound the thong from his waist and set a pebble in place.
“Good,” muttered Gonch between his clenched teeth. “The boy bears himself like a true warrior. I would be his friend if I could be anyone’s. No man, young or old, lives who can best him at his own game.”
Totan was now in fine spirits. This was good sport, a fight to the death, although rough and tumble with stout cudgels and grown men would have been better. Stone-throwing was child’s play but there was novelty in such a contest and it might prove entertaining. He hustled his followers out of the way into the cave-entrance and thus gave the two gladiators the whole threshold to themselves. Kutnar took his place at one extremity of the ledge; the Stone Thrower stood at the other. The spectators howled joyfully; then at a sign from Totan, all became quiet.
Swish! The Castillan drew back his arm and made the first throw—not badly aimed but Kutnar saw the stone coming and dropped flat. The missile whizzed over his head. Instantly he was up again, whirling his sling. Hiss! the pebble sped like a bullet. No chance to dodge a thing like that. Before the Stone Thrower could tell what struck him, he lay sprawling upon the ledge. His skull was cracked but there was no more than a bruise upon his temple to show for it.
Nobody laughed this time. All stared in wonder at the fallen man, then at the boy. Kutnar had no eyes for those about him. He stood motionless, mouth half-open, watching the contortions of his victim. This was the first human being he had slain. A fair fight and not one of his choosing but his triumph was tinged with remorse. It was with such feelings that he crossed the ledge and stood over the vanquished. Every pair of eyes followed him. Every voice was hushed. The stillness of death was in the air. And then as every Castillan waited breathless anticipating the final blow, the victor kneeled upon the rock and rubbed his foeman’s forehead.