“Will you join us for meat and mead before we settle the matter at hand?” the Duke asked.
“I am here to fight.” The newcomer’s voice was flat and emotionless. “There will be time for food when your champion has fallen.”
Quill flushed with anger at the man’s arrogance. With an effort of will, he forced it back down—fighting angry was a sure way to get hurt. If the Duke shared Quill’s anger, his voice gave no sign of it.
“So be it. Step forward and take your place, and the ceremony can begin.”
Without another word, the newcomer strode past the banquet tables and into an open space that had been cleared in the middle of the hall. As the light fell on his face, it revealed blunt features, all lines and angles—like the man had been carved from rock. Cold eyes glared from beneath brooding eyebrows, and his hair was cut close to his scalp. The man was clad only in tight, leather trousers, his huge torso bare except for the scars and gouges left by countless fights. Quill nodded; this was obviously a seasoned warrior, otherwise he wouldn’t be representing an entire duchy. The lack of loose fabric to provide his opponent a grip and the shorn hair to prevent another fighter grabbing it showed that the other man had been through the mill a time or two. Quill knew that he should have shaved his head too, but women liked his thatch of hair too much for him to want to. Instead, he would wear a skullcap made of leather to stop his opponent from taking advantage of his vanity. With a sigh, Quill stood and made his way into the circle, standing beside the other man and trying not to think about the difference in their sizes.
The Duke’s voice took on a formal tone as he began to speak, as if the words were not his but were instead weighted with tradition stretching back long before his reign.
“Nobles of Vylara, and our guests, the witnesses for the Duke of Krydor,” he began, “for two hundred years we have eschewed wars between us. Instead of the waste of young lives and the watering of battlefields with the precious blood of our people, we have instead chosen a more civilized path to settle our disputes. Today, you will witness two champions doing battle to decide the status of the village of Remore, which both duchies claim. The Duke of Krydor and I have sworn on our honor that we will abide by the result. Do you so witness?”
“We do so witness.”
The voices that echoed back strong and clear from the tables were solemn, but Quill could still hear an undercurrent of excitement.
“Good. Now, let our two champions be known. For Vylara stands Lord Quill, a newcomer to our duchy, but a warrior whose skills have elevated him to the rank of my personal champion within a few short months.”
There was a pounding of tables as the gathered nobles, the majority of whom were Vylarans, saluted him. Quill tried not to grin. His ascent had been rapid indeed, the result of a duel fought before the Duke when Quill had been challenged by an outraged husband. The man had been skilled enough, but Quill—able to call upon the fighting disciplines of a score of planets—had defeated him easily. The Duke, a shrewd tactician, had seen the potential use for such a fighter immediately, and Quill had since stood in a dozen bouts on the Duke’s behalf—winning each one. It was a strange system of diplomacy, but Quill had no complaints, as it had provided him a niche he could happily fill—as well as his own title and comforts. In fairness, it had also allowed him to prevent several potentially fraught situations that the Duchy had faced from blowing up into battles. Of course, the downside was that he had to fight.
“For Krydor,” the Duke continued, “stands Ragnak, undefeated in ten battles.”
Ragnak raised his massive arms above his head, clenching his huge fists. Quill himself was tall and well built, with broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist and flat stomach, but next to Ragnak he felt like a child. The sheer size of the man was disconcerting, and Quill could only hope that Ragnak was as slow as that bulk of muscle must demand. He was easily the biggest man Quill had seen since he had come to the planet, most of the inhabitants being Quill’s height or shorter.
The Duke turned to the other duchy’s champion.
“As our guest, custom dictates that you have choice of weapons. What say you?”
Quill relaxed a bit. The local weapon disciplines were relatively unsophisticated, and whether the other man chose blade or staff, Quill was confident his speed and skill would be more than adequate.
“I need no weapon other than my hands.” In another man it might have sounded like bravado, but Ragnak spoke with a casual indifference that made Quill’s blood go cold.
The Duke blinked in surprise, and then regained his composure.
“So be it.” He sat back down in in his seat. “Take your places.”
Quill stood and faced the other man, trying to maintain an air of confidence.
“So, old chap, what do you say we make this a fair fight? No biting, gouging, or anything like that? No need to forget our manners.”
Ragnak gave no sign of having heard him other than a slight curl of his lip that Quill might have simply imagined.
“All right then, not a big talker. Let’s see how you fight.”
The Duke’s voice rang out across the hall. “Begin!”
The two champions circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to commit. Quill was content to wait and let the bigger man come at him—so Quill could try to use his opponent’s bulk and strength against him—but Ragnak seemed in no hurry. Quill began to sweat. Usually men this big were arrogant because of their size, and could be lured into costly errors. If Ragnak was a patient fighter, it would make him twice as dangerous. Quill was just about to feint at the other man when Ragnak exploded into motion, charging at Quill with a speed that was as terrifying as it was unpredictable. The off-worlder was barely able to dodge to one side, ducking under a punch that whistled through the air just above his head. Quill pivoted and drove his fist into the other man’s back, aiming for Ragnak’s kidneys with short, sharp jabs, but with all the power that he could muster. Three times Quill hit him, wincing as each blow landed. It was like driving his fist into an oaken board, the thick muscle barely yielding beneath each punch. Ragnak showed no sign of pain, instead spinning around and throwing another brutal punch. Caught by surprise, Quill windmilled backwards to get out of reach, but was not quick enough. The Krydoran’s huge fist clipped Quill’s chin, barely touching him, but the impact was still enough to send bright stars flashing before his eyes. Catching his balance, Quill spat a mouthful of blood on the floor and watched the other champion carefully, waiting for another charge.
It was not long in coming, and Quill braced himself against the onslaught. Ragnak’s huge arms lashed out as Quill desperately blocked them. He drove his fist into the inside of Ragnak’s elbow, a blow that should have left the other man’s limb numb and useless, but that instead nearly broke Quill’s wrist. The pain was enough that he barely remembered to throw up his other arm to block another punch. This time he felt the impact all the way to his shoulder, and it was his own arm that felt numb, nerves tingling. He couldn’t believe how strong the other man was; it was like sparring with Drax. Of course, Drax usually remembered to pull his punches. Quill had never imagined a mere human could hit this hard. A more subtle approach to combat seemed called for, and Quill stepped inside the next blow, grabbing Ragnak’s wrist and using the big man’s strength to flip him over his shoulder. Ragnak hit the floor with a crash that shook the hall, and for a moment Quill let himself hope that the other man might stay down. Instead, Ragnak rose fluidly to his feet, the only sign of his fall the wary respect he now showed Quill. Rather than charging straight at the off-worlder, Ragnak now began to stalk him, hands outstretched, clenching and unclenching. Quill moved back, trying to stay outside the Krydoran’s reach, uncomfortably aware that if Ragnak got his hands on him, it would be the end.
An uneasy mutter rose from the tables scattered around the hall, caught and magnified by
the ornate marble walls. The Vylarans were used to seeing their champion make short work of all comers, and it must have disoriented them to see him struggling in such a fashion. Quill tried to ignore the mutterings, but it was hard not to feel a slight sting at the Vylarans’ doubt. He gritted his teeth as he heard a familiar voice among the babble—Karyn asking her father if he thought Quill would prevail. That was too much for Quill, and he launched himself at Ragnak, spinning into a perfect crescent kick that should have shattered the other man’s collarbone. Instead, Quill groaned as his ankle was caught in a viselike grip—the Krydoran was fast! With contemptuous ease, Ragnak yanked Quill towards him and caught Quill around the throat, lifting him from the floor before hurling him backwards and crashing down onto one of the tables. For a moment, Quill simply laid atop the wreckage before finally clambering to his feet. He shook off splinters of wood and the ruins of a meal that the luckless noble who had cushioned his fall had been eating. Quill’s legs didn’t want to obey him, and nearly sent him down to the unforgiving floor, but he was conscious of the Duke’s (and more importantly, his daughter’s) eyes upon him, and, by sheer willpower, forced his legs to support his weight.
“Okay, Ragnak, I’m done playing with you,” Quill said, hoping his voice didn’t ring as hollow in everyone else’s ears as it did in his own. “We can do this the easy way . . . or the hard way.”
For the first time, Ragnak smiled, his grin hard and merciless.
“Oh, the hard way. I insist.”
Quill shrugged and waded in, his fist crashing into the Krydoran’s chin with all of his strength behind it. This time, the huge champion gave the barest sign of being hurt, wincing and shaking his head slightly, but before Quill could press his advantage, Ragnak came at him. Quill ducked under the first punch and buried his other fist in Ragnak’s midriff, but again, it was like hitting a plank of wood, and the Krydoran barely grunted. Quill threw another punch, trying to break the other man’s nose, but instead gasped as his fist was caught in one of Ragnak’s huge hands. Slowly, the giant began to squeeze, grinding the bones in Quill’s hand together. Quill strained against the other man’s grip, but he might as well have been fighting one of the bronze statues scattered about the hall. Desperately, he threw another punch with his free hand, driving it into Ragnak’s cheekbone, but the other man barely blinked. Quill threw another punch, then another, mashing Ragnak’s lips into his teeth, and all the while the Krydoran merely grinned a bloody smile and squeezed harder. Quill’s next punch was too slow and Ragnak caught it in his free hand, leaving Quill trapped—and at his mercy.
“You fought better than I expected when I first saw you,” Ragnak said. “You looked like another soft lord who couldn’t take a punch. I’ll make this quick in honor of your bravery.”
Before Quill could say anything, Ragnak yanked him forward. The last thing Quill saw was the other man’s forehead hurtling towards his face, and then everything went black.
Chapter 4
Quill was used to hangovers, but at least with those there were usually some fond memories of the night before to ease the pain. He didn’t even have that to offset the splitting headache that was making him feel like the top of his head could slide off at any time, instead, he had only the humiliating realization that he had been beaten. The night before was nothing more than a blurry memory, but he needed no reminder to tell him what had happened. The glares from the other men gathered around the table in the Duke’s personal audience chamber were eloquent enough. As the Duchy’s champion, he enjoyed a place on the Duke’s council, but even on a good day he normally kept as quiet as possible and let the more established members go about their business. Today, he slouched in his seat and tried to be invisible, hoping this would be a quick meeting and that he could retire to his chambers and lick his wounds sooner rather than later. But instead, he winced as the voices around him grew louder and louder.
“Without the harvest from Remore, there will be a shortage of purple dye this season, and that means less revenue than we had planned for.”
That was the Master of Coin, a red-faced man named Tremas in his late sixties who treated every penny that came through the Duchy’s coffers as his own—and who squealed like a pig whenever asked to spend any.
“Perhaps you should not have planned for the harvest from a village that was in dispute,” said Marius, the Master of Arms. Also in his sixties, he was lean where Tremas was fat, and still one of the best swords in the Duchy. He and Quill had been if not friends, at least on good terms since the off-worlder had taught Marius some of the blade techniques he had learned from Gamora. The thought of Gamora gave Quill a melancholy twinge. Despite the way that they had parted, he often wondered what she, and his other companions, were doing—and whether they were okay. Just as he did every other time they came to mind, he pushed down the memories of their time together and focused on the task at hand. That way led to less time for regret.
There were four other lords in the chamber, all with their own areas of oversight and authority, but Quill had soon learned that it was Marius and Tremas who mattered. The Duke gave more weight to either of their words than he did to the rest of his advisors combined. The two men were very different in attitude and experience but, while Quill tended to side with Marius, he had to admit that their different perspectives meant that the Duke got to see both sides of a problem—and the Duchy was often the better for it.
“If our champion had done his job,” said Tremas, “the village would no longer be in dispute.” Scorn dripped from his voice, as he had no fondness for Quill. As far as Tremas was concerned, the council was for nobility, not landless strangers whose only distinction was a talent for violence. “Instead, it now belongs to Krydor.”
“Every man can be beaten on his day, and Krydor chose well—that champion, Ragnak, was a brute,” Marius said. “Or do you think you could have done better?”
Tremas sneered. “It isn’t my role to fight. I leave that to those with more brawn than brains.”
Despite his resolution to remain silent, Quill was about to attempt a biting comeback when the Duke brought his fist crashing down on the table. The noise sent daggers of pain through Quill’s battered skull, and silenced the other men in the room.
“Enough! Quill has won enough bouts to prove his worth. I would have preferred he won, but he didn’t. Let that be the end of it.” Tremas stirred as if to speak, but the Duke quelled him with a glare. “I said that is the end of it. Given the tidings we have just received, Remore is a trivial matter indeed.”
None of the other men argued, instead turning to stare at the nervous young courier who seemed to be trying to fade into the wallpaper. It was the first they’d heard that there was another threat to the Duchy.
“Tell the council your news,” the Duke commanded.
“Sire,” the youth stammered. “Astarlia has fallen, and its armies are scattered. I barely made it out alive.”
Gasps rang out from the gathered lords, and Quill straightened in his seat, forgetting his pain for a moment. Astarlia was the easternmost province of the Empire, standing as a bulwark against the nomadic tribes that wandered the steppes beyond the eastern border. The bulk of the Empire’s standing army was stationed there, as wars within its provinces were virtually unknown, and skirmishes with the nomads were the only battles that had been fought for centuries. If Astarlia had fallen, something had gone terribly wrong—and worse, the rest of the Empire was now vulnerable to the nomads’ incursion.
“How is this possible?” Marius asked. The old soldier had a knack for cutting straight to the important questions. “The nomads are formidable warriors one on one, but as an army they lack organization. I can’t believe that they could defeat the force we had based on the border.”
“My lord,” began the courier after gulping nervously, “it was the nomads, but some of the veterans said they’d never seen them move in such numbers. W
e’ve held our own against them before, but they were organized this time. They didn’t just charge at us, they fought like, well, like soldiers. And they had better weapons than we’d seen before. Strange, flat-looking bows with ranges like ours, but that could shoot four or five times as fast, and proper armor like our knights wear—but all their soldiers had it. It didn’t even seem to slow them down, and they were riding steppe ponies, not knights’ coursers.” He stopped for a moment, as if looking at something only he could see. “But, that wasn’t what broke us, my lord.”
“Go on,” the Duke said with surprising gentleness. “What was it?”
“It was these dark figures, sire, like shadows that walked and moved on their own, or rode horses as black as night with eyes that glowed with a blood-red light. They directed the nomads, urged them on. And every time we tried to make a stand, they would be at the head of the charge and we just couldn’t hold against them. They had swords of fire that sliced through steel like butter, and they could take blows that would have killed a normal man without even blinking!”
“This is ridiculous,” Tremas sputtered. “You expect to us to believe these . . . these fairy tales? They sound like an attempt to cover up cowardice.”
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