“Damon! Damon! Damon!” The chant grew louder, more bloodthirsty. Damon let it fuel his rage. He feared what would happen should his rage dissipate. He feared what might happen should his weakness be exposed, before all those who deferred to him as prince. He had always been a good swordsman, but never great, like Koenyg…or even Sasha. He had always been a good prince but never great, like Krystoff. He had always been somewhat well liked but never loved, like Sofy. Lenayin was not a land of the second best. Lenay men were either heroes or martyrs. That was why so many would willingly throw themselves into this meaningless, bloody war. They would be found worthy, or they would die. Either was acceptable, and indeed preferable to seeking neither.
A crowd was gathering, men running, calling for others. Best get this over fast, Damon decided, before they were overrun by onlookers. The officers, nobles and village heads would keep order, but not indefinitely. A prince of Lenayin had not participated in an honour-duel since…Gods, he could not think of when. Koenyg had threatened it several times, to provincial lordlings who tried his patience, and once to a southern lord who had been spreading rumours of infidelity. All had declined, wisely. For most Lenays, such a duel was unwinnable-to kill a prince of Lenayin in a duel would win no favours from anyone, the king least of all.
“Damon!” Myklas gasped, pushing through the crowd to walk at his side. He’d clearly been running. “Watch his shield, he’ll try to bash you with it, get you offbalance-”
“I know!” Damon retorted. “Koenyg told me already.”
“You’ll get him,” Myklas said fiercely. “He looks strong, but he’s fat and slow too.”
“I’ll not underestimate him,” Damon replied. His heart was pounding, more from rage than fear. “I seem to recall I’ve fought far more battles than you.”
“I wish you’d let me do it,” Myklas said. He walked not as tall as Damon, nor as broad, his limbs still slender with seventeen years’ youth. Yet there was a swagger to his step that some old enough to remember said reminded them of Krystoff. “Why not just yield to me? I could use the experience, like everyone’s always telling me…”
Damon knew it would be useless to shout at Myklas, and remind him that someone was about to die, and that none of it was any game.
“Myklas,” he said instead, and put a rough arm about his younger brother’s shoulders. “If anything should happen to me, tonight or any other night, I want you to swear you’ll look after Sofy. Not only look after, but listen to her. She’s wiser than all the men in this family combined, so you listen to her, you hear me?”
“What are you talking about? You’ll kill this fat porker and play lagand with his head…”
“Or any other night, Myk,” Damon repeated. “We’re marching to war, and this is only the first of many battles. Swear it to me.”
“Of course I’ll look after Sofy. What else would I do?” They clasped forearm to forearm.
“And listen to her,” Damon repeated.
Masters Heldryn and Tyvenar pushed to Damon’s side and grasped at his shoulder. Young men, the sons of lords on their way to their first war, and very excited.
Myklas grinned helplessly. “Brother, you know I don’t listen to anyone.”
“Your brother has the soul of a warrior,” Heldryn told Myklas. “Yours is the pride, young Myklas!”
Past the camp periphery, Lord Elen and his entourage stopped on the wet grass ten strides from the river. There, in the misting rain, he took his position. Guardsmen flanked out, forming a circle, about which the crowd rushed in, some carrying torches or lamps, lighting rain and firesmoke in flickering yellow.
“Lad,” said Father Syd, “do you wish the blessings?”
“No,” said Damon, sword unsheathed, and testing its balance. “I’ll not waste the gods’ time.” If he waited longer, the fear would come. He recalled the girl’s body on the tent floor, impaled by Lord Elen’s sword. It angered him, yet strangely, the rage seemed to fade a little. Fear threatened, until he recalled Sofy’s face, stricken with horror. Then the rage came back.
He glared at Lord Elen, attended by his minor lords and several guards. A man came running with Lord Elen’s shield. Elen slid his arm within the straps and hefted its weight with expert balance. Damon recalled Sasha’s duel, against Farys Varan of Hadryn, more than a half year ago. He was not of Sasha’s standard with a blade, he knew…but just as surely, Elen was not of Varan’s. Varan, however, had followed the codes of Lenay honour. Elen would not. Best to remember.
Hefting his shield, and comforted by the weight of his mail, Lord Elen seemed to grow in confidence. He regarded Damon coldly above the rim of his shield, and smiled. The clustering crowd quietened, expectantly.
“How do these things begin, in the highlands?” Elen asked.
“A man is appointed adjudicator,” said Father Syd, the only other man within the circle. “A priest, if available. Or a holy man, amongst Goeren-yai. When I am satisfied, I will give the word.”
Elen nodded, sidling sideways a step. His balance, Damon noted, looked rather good despite his weight. “I have fought eight duels and won them all,” he said smugly. “I’m sure I’ll adapt.” No doubt he thought this revelation a timely blow. Damon didn’t care.
“Will you require the blessings?” asked Father Syd.
“Of a highlands priest?” Elen scoffed. “I think not.”
“As you will,” said Syd, and stepped back to the circle’s edge. “Indicate your readiness.”
Elen nodded. Damon took stance, two hands to his sword’s hilt, and did the same. Syd said, “Begin!” and Damon lunged.
It was nearly over in four strokes. Damon crashed rapid blows onto Elen’s shield, forcing the Bacosh lord back and then sideways, defending to his sword side while circling left, desperately, away from the strikes. Shields encouraged a defensive pattern Lenay warriors always scoffed. Those who wielded them would rather block with the shield than the sword, and so lost the latter art completely. Thus defending, Elen made no attempt to thrust his blade forward, but merely held it back, hoping for the counterstrike opening that never came.
Damon cut from high left, forcing a rapid back shift that caused Elen to slip on the wet grass…the shield wavered across, and Damon reversed to slash from the low forequarter. His sword tore into the rim of Elen’s shield, far enough to strike his hip. Elen staggered and swung back desperately, Damon parrying and skipping back from range.
A roar from the crowd, and Damon caught a brief glimpse of Elen’s entourage, faces fearful in the firelight, seeing their powerful, armoured lord so completely overwhelmed. Fear, too, on the face of Lord Elen, as perhaps the pain of his hip wound reached him, and he realised that now even his mobility would suffer.
Schooled in Lenay swordsmanship, Damon did not allow his opponent any chance to regroup, but immediately pressed his advantage. Elen blocked the crushing overhead and risked a sideways slash with his sword…desperation, and Damon had expected it. He parried close, spinning inward and ramming his shoulder into Elen’s shield. The wounded man staggered at the impact, slipped, and the shield dropped once more. Raised just in time to meet Damon’s second overhead with its rim, but the blow was powerful and sliced through the shield’s edge, crashing it downward…
…and suddenly, it all stopped, Damon half surprised to find his blade buried in Elen’s skull, nearly down to one eyebrow. Blood trickled into one horrified eye. He wasn’t dead yet, and that was sickening. Damon pulled his blade clear, to the sound of cracking skull, but Elen collapsed before he could give the mercy of a beheading. He lay there on the grass, kicking and struggling, trying to speak. The crowd was yelling, a deafening roar of chants and triumph, blades and fists punching the air. Damon knew he should finish Elen, but suddenly, the rage was gone, and all he felt was…despair. It was not a clean kill. Why had the gods not granted him the mercy of a clean kill?