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Summary: It had been three years since the end of the last susian civil war. To celebrate, a celebration of competitive bouts had been scheduled. But Chupa, of the Shai sounder, went too far. Chupa killed his opponent. Now the susa faces reprisal.
(c) 2005, Nathan Ryan
Notes: This story is a part of the Dual Blade Universe. The characters in this story belong to a race called the susal. These people are a warlike race of hog-morphs. During times of peace, the susal participate in Olympian games (Olympian in the old version of the word.)

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Chupa's wide nostrils flared as he sucked the dusty air through his snout and deep into his lungs. He let out a bellow of triumph, letting the blood splatter down from his tusks to the pale earth. At his feet lay his victim, a fellow Susa. The youngster never stood a chance against the battle hardened veteran. Chupa didn't even look down at the young fighter who lay bleeding from his neck as he wheezed for breath. The lead council of Sounder Shai, his clan, had arranged for the match to take place. Their rivals, Sounder Haksh, had forced these war games into opening. Haksh held sway over all the local sounders, and who could afford to be singled out with such a precarious balance of power? But Haksh had grown soft, and Shai was still burning from the last Susian civil war that had ended only a short three years ago. The loss should have been a public embarrassment to Haksh, reminding them that Shai hadn't forgotten.

Chupa spat on the dying warrior beneath him. A hushed silence had fallen over the gathered crowds. The air about the arena had changed. A collective confusion set in. They had expected to see deadly combat, but not yet. Deadly combat was reserved for bouts with animals, captives, and prisoners of war - not for the wrestling competition. The rules were clear and constant. They hadn't changed for a hundred years. The look in Chupa's eyes was wild. He seemed not to recognize any wrongdoing. The gate at the far end of the temporary wooden arena creaked open. Now the chairman would enter, grasp Chupa's gray hand, hold it aloft and declare him the victor. He turned to face the approaching overseer. What met his eyes shocked him. It shook him from his battle-induced euphoria. The chairman was entering, but with him were six armed Susian guards. Each guard bore the colors of one of the participating sounders, including Shai and Haksh. Their loose ceremonial tunic and sash garb flapped gently in the soft breeze.

"What is this?" he asked the chair, trying to sound indignant. The approaching party spoke not a word. The mohawk on the back of his neck started to raise as he felt the danger of his situation begin to sink in. He reached down to his side for his icon, to pray for protection, but there was nothing to take hold of. Like all competitors, he was as bare as a newborn piglet besides the ceremonial clay-paints he wore in the colors of his sounder and images of strength, endurance, and protection. His bare feet shifted anxiously in the dust. Perhaps the images would not be enough this time.

The distinguished chairman stood before him, at a distance respectful of the speed and efficiency the warrior had just demonstrated. But the chairman was no pushover. He had served his sounder's army for a full term, eighteen years. He'd survived to become an elder, and had enough combat experience to keep himself safe from this younger warrior, even if it took knives and tusks to do it. He spoke in a loud baritone voice. From his first words it was clear he was addressing the entire audience. "Seven years," he called. "Seven years since a Susa warrior has died from his injuries in this event - at the hands of another Susa. It threw us back into another civil war."

A din arose from the crowd. It was a murmur that was quieted by the chairman's hand. Up above the wooden arena, banners flapped in the wind like so many fish, perpetually swimming east.

The old male continued. "Twenty-four years. Twenty-four years since a contestant was so vilely and intentionally executed by a fellow Susian in this venture. This isn't tomorrow's gladiatorial contest! Today is about unity!"

The murmur of ascent from the stands above began to worry Chupa. The chairman went on, never turning to address him directly, although he would cast the naked warrior a glance from time to time. It was becoming increasingly clear to Chupa that the chairman had no intention of letting him live. The audience was becoming more and more agitated every moment. His death would be slow, and public, here in the arena as a warning to the other competitors in an attempt to satisfy the sounder of the deceased warrior. His name would be spat out of the mouths of Elders as a lesson of how to die without the spirit of a true warrior for generations to come - just like Kanar the Infamous.

A thought occurred to Chupa. He couldn't change the latter, but perhaps he could dodge the former. If he was any good, he could pull it off. If the guards were worth their salt, they would be fine. He eyed the nearest soldier - the Haksh color guard. The brown skinned Susa stood there with his hands behind his back like an arrogant sow. Chupa's gaze studied the other guards, just to keep his intentions masked. The chairman's voice rose as he reached a climax. The guards nodded in agreement with the older ex-warrior.

Chupa struck. He lowered his shoulder and with astonishing speed he rammed the complacent Haksh color guard. The guard had seen it coming soon enough to feebly reach for his blade, but Chupa's hand was already there, sliding the stout dagger out of its sheath with a satisfying 'shink'. The Susa warrior may not have been able to dodge, but as Chupa thrust the blade forward, his new opponent held a hand in the blade's path, allowing it to be pierced through to the hilt rather than to have the blade sink into his chest.

It was over before Chupa could pull the knife back out. The other guards had fallen upon him with their blades, each one finding him with surgical precision. The warrior crumpled to the ground like a sack, wide-eyed and motionless. He could see and hear, but he couldn't react as the guard wearing the colors of Shai, his own sounder, approached. Chupa watched as his compatriot knelt down and smeared away the clay designs that had been painted on the warrior's chest, erasing them. He heard the color guard say, "You don't deserve to wear the butterfly. Harah would never resurrect you."

Chupa's world went black.