“Bah!” said Yarbog. “I do not challenge you for the right to lead your own race. I challenge you for the right to lead us, the fighting rams of the Bolvek tribe! You have not proven yourself, Stronghammer, so you cannot claim the position of chieftain. If you lose, I will become chieftain here, and we shall not lift our chins to you, Carn, or any other creature too weak to earn our respect!”

Roran pondered his situation before accepting the inevitable. Even if it cost him his life, he had to try to maintain his authority over the Urgals, else the Varden would lose them as allies. Taking a breath, he said, “Among my race, it is customary for the person who has been challenged to choose the time and place for the fight, as well as the weapons both parties will use.”

Chortling deep in his throat, Yarbog said, “The time is now, Stronghammer. The place is here. And among my race, we fight in a loincloth and without weapons.”

“That is hardly fair, since I have no horns,” Roran pointed out. “Will you agree to let me use my hammer to compensate for my lack?”

Yarbog thought about it, then said, “You may keep your helmet and shield, but no hammer. Weapons are not allowed when we fight to be chief.”

“I see. . . . Well, if I can’t have my hammer, I will forgo my helmet and shield as well. What are the rules of combat, and how shall we decide the winner?”

“There is only one rule, Stronghammer: if you flee, you forfeit the match and are banished from your tribe. You win by forcing your rival to submit, but since I will never submit, we will fight to the death.”

Roran nodded. That might be what he intends to do, but I won’t kill him if I can help it. “Let us begin,” he cried, and banged his hammer against his shield.

At his direction, the men and Urgals cleared a space in the middle of the ravine and pegged out a square, twelve paces by twelve paces. Then Roran and Yarbog stripped, and two Urgals slathered bear grease over Yarbog’s body while Carn and Loften, another human, did the same for Roran.

“Rub as much as you can into my back,” Roran murmured. He wanted his scabs to be as soft as possible so as to minimize the number of places they would crack.

Leaning close to him, Carn said, “Why did you refuse the shield and helmet?”

“They would only slow me. I’ll have to be as fast as a frightened hare if I’m to avoid being crushed by him.” As Carn and Loften worked their way down his limbs, Roran studied his opponent, searching for any vulnerability that would help him defeat the Urgal.

Yarbog stood well over six feet tall. His back was broad, his chest deep, and his arms and legs covered with knotted muscles. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, as it had to be in order to sustain the weight of his head and his curled horns. Three slanting scars marked the left side of his waist, where he had been clawed by an animal. Sparse black bristles grew over the whole of his hide.

At least he’s not a Kull, thought Roran. He was confident of his own strength, but even so, he did not believe that he could overpower Yarbog with sheer force. Rare was the man who could hope to match the physical prowess of a healthy Urgal ram. Also, Roran knew that Yarbog’s large black fingernails, his fangs, his horns, and his leathery hide would all provide Yarbog with considerable advantages in the unarmed combat they were about to engage in. If I can, I will, Roran decided, thinking of all the low tricks he could use against the Urgal, for fighting Yarbog would not be like wrestling with Eragon or Baldor or any other man from Carvahall; rather, Roran was sure that it would be like the ferocious and unrestrained brawling between two wild beasts.

Again and again, Roran’s eyes returned to Yarbog’s immense horns, for those, he knew, were the most dangerous of the Urgal’s features. With them, Yarbog could butt and gore Roran with impunity, and they would also protect the sides of Yarbog’s head from any blows Roran could deliver with his bare hands, although they limited the Urgal’s peripheral vision. Then it occurred to Roran that just as the horns were Yarbog’s greatest natural gift, so too they might be his undoing.

Roran rolled his shoulders and bounced on the balls of his feet, eager for the contest to be over.

When both Roran and Yarbog were completely covered with bear grease, their seconds retreated and they stepped into the confines of the square pegged out on the ground. Roran kept his knees partially flexed, ready to leap in any direction at the slightest hint of movement from Yarbog. The rocky soil was cold, hard, and rough beneath the soles of his bare feet.

A slight gust stirred the branches of the nearby willow tree. One of the oxen harnessed to the wagons pawed at a clump of grass, his tack creaking.

With a rippling bellow, Yarbog charged Roran, covering the distance between them with three thundering steps. Roran waited until Yarbog was nearly upon him, then jumped to the right. He underestimated Yarbog’s speed, however. Lowering his head, the Urgal rammed his horns into Roran’s left shoulder and tossed him sprawling across the square.

Sharp rocks poked into Roran’s side as he landed. Lines of pain flashed across his back, tracing the paths of his half-healed wounds. He grunted and rolled upright, feeling several scabs break open, exposing his raw flesh to the stinging air. Dirt and small pebbles clung to the film of grease on his body. Keeping both feet on the ground, he shuffled toward Yarbog, never taking his eyes off the snarling Urgal.

Again Yarbog charged him, and again Roran attempted to jump out of the way. This time his maneuver succeeded, and he slipped past the Urgal with inches to spare. Whirling around, Yarbog ran at him for a third time, and once more, Roran managed to evade him.