In the center of the circle of light stood a young man, hardly more than a youth, wearing the loincloth and tattoos of a desert warrior. He was dusty, bruised, and grazed as if he had been climbing cliffs, or perhaps falling down them. A long sheathed dagger lay on the gravel at his feet.
He was not bound, but he was easily within Darin’s reach, which meant his chances of escape were hardly better than those of a prisoner locked in a cell.
Pirvan now looked at the people standing on the edge of the circle, and noted that Serafina was in much the same condition as the-visitor. Grimsoar’s face was twisted into a mask of fury that the knight had seldom seen in his old comrade.
“Torches,” Pirvan said.
Grimsoar glared. “And light up the camp for this little slug’s friends to come and rescue him?”
Haimya replied before Pirvan could recover from his surprise at Grimsoar’s defiance. “That was an order, not a suggestion, my friend. Now, may I see to Serafina’s hurts? At times like this a woman’s presence may do more-”
The desert warrior spat on the gravel and several hands slapped the hilts of weapons. “I did her no dishonor,” he said, in a voice that held as much menace as Grimsoar’s face. “It was a fair fight. Do not insult me by saying otherwise!” He spoke in the common tongue that had spread from Istar over the last few centuries, although with a strong accent in which Pirvan detecteed a trace of elven speech.
“You are our prisoner, and we can say what we-” Grimsoar began.
“Torches,” Pirvan repeated. “Also, silence. Sir Darin, kindly sit on the next person who speaks without permission.”
Darin was not quite as large as the minotaur who had raised him, but the late Waydol had been large even for that well-grown breed. At a mere six and a half feet, Darin was still capable of subduing anyone in the camp without using a weapon or working up a sweat.
Two guards ran up, having obeyed Pirvan’s first call for torches. Each had a bundle of them under one arm. A few moments of handing around torches and work with flint and steel, and a flickering yellow glow illuminated the scene.
Tarothin set down the magic lantern and looked ready to collapse on top of it. Serafina drew herself free of Grimsoar’s arms and went over to the Red Robe.
“Husband, let us help Tarothin to his tent. If he then finds that I need healing, I will not refuse it. But he must save his strength.”
Tarothin started to protest, but the other two each took one arm and pulled him to his feet; Grimsoar indeed nearly lifted the wizard free of the ground. They vanished toward the tents. Pirvan wondered if Serafina would wait until Tarothin was asleep before she wielded her tongue against her husband. This would not be their first quarrel arising from Grimsoar’s being overprotective.
His old friend had left it a bit late in life, Pirvan knew, to learn about women who insist on standing on their own feet-and kicking the shins of any man who disputes their right.
Pirvan turned to Hawkbrother. “Now, we have sworn honorable treatment-one knight’s oath binds all in a company-”
“Then you are Knights of Solamnia.”
“Knights of the Sword, both of us,” Pirvan said. “But hear me out before you speak again. You came among us like a thief or a cutthroat, and I wager that you had designs on our mounts.”
“Yes, but only to learn what business you had in the desert. And to remind you that this is the land of the Free Riders.”
“We need no such reminders, and we do need all our animals,” Pirvan said. “Therefore, we cannot simply let you run free. Neither, however, do we see any purpose in keeping you captive. No purpose, and indeed much danger. I would make a further wager, that you have comrades within bow shot, enough to give us a good fight if you seem to need rescuing.”
Hawkbrother merely nodded.
“Good. I propose a bout of honor, me against you. It will be here and now, by torchlight, until one of us cries ‘Hold!’ If you win-”
“Pirvan!” Haimya and Darin exclaimed together. It was a moment before the older knight realized that Darin had for the first time addressed him simply by his name.
“Excuse me,” Pirvan said. “I was not finished. Oath and Measure allow you to dispute me only when I am.”
Strictly speaking. Oath and Measure bound only Darin. Haimya was bound merely by twenty years’ love, which seldom kept her from speaking her mind.
This time, Pirvan was fortunate. Both allowed him to explain the terms of the fight.
“If you win, you go free with anything you have learned of us, as well as a message to your father. We may even add a horse, to assure your honor among your comrades.
“If I win, you remain with us, as an honored guest. You will have healing, food, drink, and shelter. I ask only that you lead us to your father, and persuade him to speak freely with us.
“You seek knowledge of those who march south to collect taxes in Silvanesti. So do we. When we have proved one to the other that we are honorable warriors, then perhaps we may quest for this knowledge together.”
Hawkbrother frowned. This gave Darin an opportunity.
“Is it not my place to fight Hawkbrother, Sir Pirvan?” he said. He was formal again, in both his manner of address and his tone of voice. “I was the first to swear honorable treatment for him. I was also the first to lay hands upon him.”
“In truth, Serafina, wife of the one-eyed man, was the first,” Hawkbrother said. “But I will fight her only if she wishes it.”
Pirvan smiled, not only at Hawkbrother’s courtesy but at Darin’s, in not mentioning Pirvan’s age. Had Pirvan wed young, he might have had a son Darin’s age.
“That is a separate matter,” Pirvan said. “I will claim the right of this bout, Darin, because it will be fairer to Hawkbrother. You are twice his size and doubtless nearly his equal in prowess with any weapon or even bare hands.
“If I fight him, it will be a man past his full strength fighting a man not yet come to his. My experience will be matched against his swiftness. All who watch will see something to remember all their days.”
Haimya’s look spoke eloquently of how entertaining she found the prospect of her husband’s risking and perhaps losing his life before her eyes. She seemed ready to hold her tongue, however-and holding honor as dear as any knight, would also stand with steel against any treachery.
“Let it be done, then,” Hawkbrother said. “My blood and oath upon it. Swords or knives?”
“Knives,” Pirvan said. “Otherwise you would be using a weapon strange to your hands, and that might force me to kill you to save myself.”
“Knives it will be,” Hawkbrother said. “But do not think to find me a green fledgling, either. You can hardly be worse than my brothers!”
Darin returned Hawkbrother’s dagger, and Pirvan drew his. The torchbearing guards shifted about, to form a square some forty paces on a side.
Before beginning his rounds to check the resolve of his troops, Pirvan lifted his weapon in salute to Hawkbrother, who returned the gesture with an easy grace.
There could be many worse opponents for one’s last fight, if this were to be it.
Sleep did not come to Gildas Aurhinius that night.
Many visitors did, however. He deemed it prudent not to have Nemyotes turn them away. Too many of his captains ignored the secretary’s scars and thought him a scribbling clerk playing at soldier. He was also from a family more outspoken than wise in its hostility to the kingpriest’s power. Only the mild disposition of the present kingpriest had kept some of Nemyote’s kin from arrest or exile.
Gildas Aurhinius wished to give his enemies a chance to strike at him themselves, rather than march the coward’s road against Nemyotes.
Those who came to Aurhinius during the night seemed divided into two factions. One was horror-struck at the temerity of insulting Zephros, a man chosen for his post by the vengeful and ambitious adherents of the late kingpriest. And all this on behalf of a dead kender!