“The Solamnic duel is a challenge of great import and tradition,” the inquisitor intoned, speaking to both combatants directly. “From the times of antiquity, the knighthood has placed full faith in the tenets of the Oath and Measure, and nowhere else are those tenets so clearly on display.”
That was patently illogical, thought Jaymes, but he betrayed no emotion as the Clerist lord continued to speak.
“This is a test of arms… and of skill… and of courage. Know that there is no shame in defeat, should a knight give his best effort in the attempt. At any time either combatant may surrender to spare bloodshed-simply by throwing down his weapon and calling for mercy. The foe is honor bound to obey such a plea and will be regarded as the winner of the duel, though the loser remains alive.”
“A waste of words, priest,” Frankish sneered. “This cur will never submit, and I will have no need for mercy.”
“Nevertheless,” Frost admonished sternly. “The disengagement is ingrained in the tradition of the duel. It will be observed.”
The two duelists eyed each other carefully. Jaymes fingered his blade. Though the rapier was not his weapon of choice, he was skilled in its use and confident in his speed and quickness.
He was not afraid.
“Now-let the combat commence,” the inquisitor pronounced after a long pause.
Lord Frankish approached swiftly, his weapon poised, feet gliding across the dusty floor of the Dog Run. Jaymes shifted slightly, anticipating his opponent’s first strike, and made ready to sidestep. But Frankish launched a whirling attack, and the lord’s sword moved faster than Jaymes’s eyes could follow. He raised his own weapon in the planned parry, but felt a slash on his arm before his blade could make its block.
The lord marshal retreated a few steps, and Frankish came on furiously and aggressively. Jaymes suddenly realized his opponent was expert, and he was fighting for his life. He slid to the side with his enemy charging undaunted. When he tried to fake to the left, Frankish drove at him from the right, lunging forward and plucking at Jaymes’s hip, carving a nasty scrape before the lord marshal could whirl away.
As nimble as he was, his enemy was impressive in his attack. When Jaymes blocked high, his foe’s blade came in low. When he retreated, Frankish advanced. And when the lord marshal offered a modest counterattack, he was belabored by such a succession of blows he could only fall back, almost stumbling as he hastily backed away.
His enemy’s blade slid under his defenses with terrifying speed. Jaymes fell to the rear again, barely knocking the blows away, but before he could catch his balance, another slash came in from the right. He twisted to the left, lunging to escape a wickedly fast strike, but could not evade before the blade tore through his sleeve near the wrist.
Across the Dog Run, the Princess Selinda screamed.
Blood coursed over his hand, dripping from his fingers, and the lord marshal fumbled as he retreated. All too soon, he felt the cold stones of the courtyard wall against his back. Frankish’s eyes lit up with a cruel gleam of triumph as he closed in. Jaymes feinted, lunged, and parried, but he felt as if he were anchored in thick mud.
He’s not that good!
Coryn realized almost immediately that, somehow, the Rose Lord had enhanced his abilities-without using a magic device, which she certainly would have detected. Frankish moved in a blur, dancing around the eminently skilled-yet clearly outclassed-lord marshal. Jaymes’s parries looked sluggish; Frankish struck at will.
Again and again Frankish dashed in close to Jaymes, flicking with his rapier-leaving bloody scratches-and dancing away before the lord marshal could respond.
Coryn looked at Sir Moorvan, who was staring at the Rose Lord with undisguised irritation, even animosity. The Kingfisher’s hands twitched at his sides, as if he wished he could reach out and strangle the man. But why should the Kingfisher be upset, the wizard wondered-when Sir Moorvan surely wanted Frankish to win!
And suddenly she understood.
“You cast a spell of haste on him, didn’t you?” she hissed furiously.
He looked at her in astonishment, guilt flitting across his features, and in that instant she knew. “He was supposed to be discreet about it, wasn’t he? But he has failed his subterfuge. He is being too obvious!”
“Don’t be ridic-”
“You will dispel the magic-now!” she insisted angrily. “Or I will cast the same spell for Jaymes-and make a mockery of this whole duel! And then I will reveal your perfidy, and the lord regent’s, making it known to everyone concerned, from Palanthas to the Council of Whitestone and even the Grand Master himself!”
With a pained look, the Kingfisher squirmed in his seat. “But I can’t-”
“Do it-right now!” demanded Coryn.
Grimacing, Moorvan waved his hand at the Rose Lord, dispelling the magic, and almost immediately, the lord marshal scored his first wound of the match.
Jaymes advanced steadily now. He saw the fear growing in his opponent’s widening eyes, the sweat that increasingly sheened his forehead. Now it was the lord marshal’s turn to thrust aggressively. He shuffled his feet forward, thrust again and again, repeating the maneuvers with smooth precision. Poised on the balls of his feet, knees bent, balance distributed evenly, Jaymes advanced and drove his opponent back.
Frankish reacted weakly to the increasing tempo of Jaymes’s attacks, blocking and parrying with mounting desperation, with little suggestion of his formerly blinding speed. The lord’s reflexes had slowed considerably, and now his skills were sorely tested. All the while the lord marshal pushed at his opponent mercilessly, steadily backing him across the floor. Frankish’s best efforts could do little except hold him at bay.
When the Rose Lord tried to circle away, Jaymes gracefully cut him off with a slide to the left. When his enemy made a desperate lunge, slashing and swiping almost frantically, Jaymes stood his ground, parrying and blocking. Their blades met with increasing fury, a clash, clash, clash that melded into a steady hiss and clangor.
The lord marshal yielded not an inch, and inevitably, Frankish fell back, sweating heavily and gasping for breath. Again Jaymes took up the advance, making slow, methodical progress across the courtyard, moving no more than eight or ten inches with each gliding step. His enemy continued to retreat, nearly stumbling, until backed up against the wall, directly before Lord Regent du Chagne. Frankish was flailing now, frantically slashing against Jaymes’s blade and leaving himself wide open to thrusts.
Jaymes was toying with Frankish now, and he backed off slightly, glancing at the pale face of Lord Regent du Chagne. Smiling coldly, fixing his eyes again on his opponent’s face, Jaymes swung hard, bashing the other man’s sword to the side.
Suddenly, startling him, Lord Frankish let go of his sword. “Mercy!” he cried, dropping to one knee. “I beg mercy, upon the Oath and the-”
But Jaymes stabbed Frankish before he could finish his plea, driving the tip of his sword through his opponent’s chest and deep into the man’s heart. Even as Frankish died, the lord marshal’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other man, the noble who stared back at him with shock, fear, and fury written plainly across his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear him in time,” Jaymes said, yanking his blade free from the other man’s chest. Frankish slumped to the ground, and the lord marshal tossed the bloody weapon onto his opponent’s corpse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jaymes took his time riding away from Palanthas. For four days he traveled by horseback over the High Clerist’s Pass, along the foothills of the Vingaard range, and up to the thriving village he had founded two years earlier-the place called, simply, the Compound. He had reasons for going there, and he needed time to clear his head.