“The wound is deep,” Damon snarled in Lenay, “and can only be salved with blood!”
“You don’t know what you say!” Koenyg said furiously, also in Lenay. “You don’t know what you say, and you shall retract…”
“The wound is deep and can only be salved with blood!” Damon insisted, his blade an unwavering pointer at Lord Elen. Koenyg hissed in exasperation. It was the traditional challenge, the one in hot blood, not the ceremonial. It was what was said in countless squares, fields and hearths across Lenayin, when tempers grew too great and insults thrust too deep, and two men’s lives made a dissonance that could only be resolved with death.
“What is this barbarian garble you speak?” Lord Elen demanded in Torovan. “Don’t you point that blade at me, or by the great gods you’ll regret it!”
“He has the right,” said Father Syd, also in Lenay, ignoring the Algrassians. The big priest pushed in behind, close between Damon and Koenyg, yet not so foolhardy as to stand directly between them.
“He has no right!” Koenyg declared. “We are guests on Algrassian lands…”
“Don’t you speak in tongues in my presence!” Lord Elen demanded. “Of what do you speak?”
“Your death!” Yasmyn Izlar said.
“I’ll not be threatened by a scabby, slanty eyed, barbarian wench!” Elen roared. “I’ll have your head, I tell you!” The Isfayen girl paid him little heed, her eyes only for Damon, alive and gleaming with admiration.
“He stepped past the talleryn stones,” Father Syd continued, now in Torovan. “He paid his respects. This is Lenay land, it is consecrated by our hearth, our food and our tents. We sleep upon the ground, we slay animals for our feast, and now, it has been further claimed with blood.”
“What are you talking about, you babbling fool?” Elen retorted. “I have been attacked, one of my men has been slain!” The other, on the ground behind Damon, was now rising, with the assistance of guardsmen. “The regent shall hear of this outrage! I shall demand satisfaction, and punishment!”
“You are being offered satisfaction,” Father Syd told him, an impassive rock in the face of the Algrassian’s bluster. “A fair fight. A prince against a lord. The gods will decide.”
“Don’t be absurd! I’ll not follow your barbarian customs! I am the Lord of Liside Vale, these are my lands, these are my ways, and I shall choose the reclaiming of my own honour!”
“I saw him pay respects at the stones!” Great Lord Ackryd cut in, from the back by the tent entrance. “He came upon our hearth, our camp, and he submitted himself to our ways. He has conducted himself without honour, he has slain innocents, he has offended a Lenay princess and made her grieve. If Prince Damon’s challenge is rejected, I volunteer my own! He shall accept, or he shall die here, right now! Ayalrach entyr dalan!”
“Ayalrach entyr dalan!” came the reply, from surrounding Lenay men, nobles and soldiers alike. Even, Damon noted, from some of Sofy’s maids, and not merely from Yasmyn. “Honour before gold,” it meant, in Lenay. Gold was not at issue here, but the saying was understood by all in the highcountry. Honour was everything. Some matters, even the highest lords could not weasel their way out of. At the intonation, even Koenyg looked sullenly resigned.
Lord Elen was not a stupid man. He seemed to sense that something had changed. “I am an important man with the regent!” he declared. “The regent’s sister is my cousin through marriage. I am not some lowly man-at-arms to be subjected to barbarian justice.”
“We are the army without which the regent cannot win his war,” Koenyg said darkly. “This is the future queen of all the Bacosh. You have offended her, and Lenay honour with it, and badly misjudged your own standing, Lord Elen. There is a reason why lowlanders tell fearful tales of the Lenay hoards. It would have been better had you recalled.”
“I’ve heard enough!” Lord Elen declared. “I am leaving, and rest assured the regent shall hear of this outrage!” He did not move very far. All about the tent, Lenay warriors stood at the ready. Their stance was unyielding. Lord Elen’s men would not advance into that threat, and Lord Elen remained fixed to the spot. He was breathing hard now, eyes wide with anger and defiance that Damon did not doubt was real. But so was the fear that it masked.
“You have been challenged to a duel by a prince of Lenayin,” Koenyg said quietly. “One does not shirk such an honour.” Koenyg could not stop it now, Damon knew, with a surge of satisfaction. In some matters, even the heir of Lenayin could not defy the common will. Not if he wished the men of Lenayin to follow him into battle.
“I do not accept!”
“Then you will die here,” said Koenyg. “As will any who defend you.” Koenyg raised his gloved fist, and guardsmen shifted the grip on their weapons. Lord Elen’s defenders flinched backward.
“I accept!” Lord Elen retracted, just as fast. Koenyg lowered his fist, slowly. He gave a slight bow.
“We shall make preparations.” He gave a signal, and guardsmen rushed from the tent to yell orders. “You have the right to await a morning duel…”
“Now!” Damon snapped. “I would not do him the honour of a formal start.”
“As you will,” said Elen, haughtily. “However, I protest at this notion of Lenay honour. I was attacked, your brother meant to murder me in cold blood, and one of my men is dead. This was no honourable declaration.”
“Conceded,” Koenyg said. “Yet it happens even in Lenayin, when a man’s honour is pushed too far. In Lenayin, men learn to be careful, Lord Elen.”
“We’re not in Lenayin!” Lord Elen fumed. “I demand advantage.”
“Thought you might,” someone muttered, in Lenay.
“I’ll fight unarmoured,” said Damon.
“Done!” Lord Elen declared. “See you outside!” Men stood aside as the furious lord and his entourage strode from the tent.
Damon sheathed his sword, and shrugged off his jacket, handing it to a guardsman. Another assisted him with the chain mail beneath.
“Damon,” said Koenyg, but Damon ignored him. “Brother.”
“I don’t care for your strategies and politics, brother,” Damon retorted, as the heavy mail vest came up over his head. “That man needs killing.”
“Aye!” came the loud reply from angry Lenays about the tent. “That he does,” Father Syd agreed. “The gods will strengthen your arm.”
“Half the Bacosh nobility needs killing,” one of Sofy’s maids said coldly.
“He will die in agony, my Prince!” called another. The mail removed, Damon reclaimed his jacket. His eyes met Sofy’s. She was standing small and huddled, wrapped in a fur coat. Her face was pale and drawn. Fearful and upset, yet not about to protest his actions.
“I’m not trying to…!” Koenyg began, and broke off in frustration. He took a deep breath. “Look, Damon.” He grabbed his brother’s arm, his grip ferocious. “Watch his shieldwork. All the Bacosh use shields better than we, it is an offensive weapon as much as defensive. He will crowd you, take away your space, your room to swing. Remember, the shield is his parry, his counterstroke will be fast. Don’t look for easy openings. Be patient.”
Damon stared at his eldest brother. There was concern in Koenyg’s eyes. Not worry, never that. But it surprised him all the same. And maddened him. “You think that fat pig will trouble me? I’ll give you his head!”
Damon strode from the tent. “Did I say that?” he heard Koenyg’s plaintive question behind. “Did I say he’d lose? I swear, little brothers are the most…”
Damon lost the rest as guardsmen shouted approval…and here were several Baen-Tar lords, slapping their prince on the back and shoulders as Bacosh men would never have dared of their royalty. A crowd was gathering, and moved with him as he strode in Lord Elen’s wake, down toward the river.