Dream of Embers Book 1

by J.B. Kleynhans

The next day it was only by noon that Shala was disturbed, Merohan knocking at her door. For him Shala gladly answered, ‘Yes Captain, how may I help?’

  ‘It is Councilman Pasco Your Highness, he graciously requests an audience with your person on the tower top.’

  ‘The tower?’

  ‘He seems adamant to speak to you alone. After he realized how determinedly you avoided this morning's meeting at court he was certain I would be the only one Your Highness would respond to.’

  Shala snorted in amusement. ‘He was right,’ said she airily.

  ‘Will I be telling him that you are busy, Highness?’ asked Merohan.

  ‘No, it is quite alright. I have time for the man. But while you are here Captain escort me all the same. I decided to have witnesses for my encounters with politicians and my father used to say to me to never meet a man alone on a tower top, unless it is in the dead of the night to steal a kiss from a lover.’

  That got a chuckle from Merohan and they left, and on their way Shala chose that they walk the periphery corridors, used more often by cleaning staff than the administrative ones.

  Council member Pasco met her at the tower top, wheezing and red-faced. He was a man of middle-years, the stresses of politics having whitened his hair prematurely.

  ‘Excuse the summons Highness, but I prefer to meet where we could have some privacy and a breath of fresh air besides.’ He was very much of the opposite nature of Swarztial. Hard-working rather than conniving, and a man with sons and daughters – he had better things to do than trying to manipulate kingdoms. Shala counted him a friend, or as much a friend as an honest ruler could ever be to a member of the council.

  ‘Not at all. I daresay you pain yourself more than me by this arrangement.’

  Pasco casted an embarrassed glance down at his sweat stained tunic and said, ‘No, I need to walk the stairs much more often. A year Highness! Just a year of gluttony and a man of my age loses all his fitness. The curse of these council meetings. They put rich foods and fine wine before us and as our bellies strain against belts and buckles we are left in a self-satisfied stupor and we say; why not? Surely the realm is well-off if we feast so lavishly. And when it is time to cast a ballot Swarztial smiles, because we are played by the illusion of plenty and comfort, and more often than not the ballot goes his way. A cheap trick! But then I am rambling Your Highness...’ said Pasco, finally having noticed the stern impatience on Merohan's face.

  ‘It has been very gruelling Highness, I know. If your father could have seen what I have seen he would be exceedingly proud of you.’

  ‘Yet Swarztial wants to have a ballot to dispose of me and as you just admitted he gets his way in these matters.’

  ‘As you know I will never vote against you as it stands, and another senior member has already relayed to me that he will vote in your favour, member Gahum if you are familiar with him.’

  ‘Yes, he is rather silent, but he watches with a wise eye. My father thought much of him.’

  ‘He is, as I know him to be, first and foremost a champion of the people, and he will not side toward Sannil just because others do. He detests weak rule and had you not stood up against Swarztial the way you did Gahum might’ve taken it as evidence to favour Patrick of Sannil. But you endured, and I suspect Gahum is well revised on Patrick’s reputed weaknesses. Swarztial will not issue a ballot knowing Gahum will vote for you, because once you are instated as Queen he cannot question your sovereignty ever again. You have, as far as I am concerned, gained a crucial victory.’

  ‘Victory?’ said Shala in disbelief. ‘It sounds impossible... Then on what grave news are you here? Is it Swarztial, will he now make an attempt on my life?’

  ‘No! No Highness. He is not rash and he knows you are very well protected. It is something a bit more devious. I grew worried when I saw a great escort bring in the house of Sannil to town yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, I heard they’re gracing us with their presence,’ said Shala, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of the fact.

  ‘You have not greeted them?’

  ‘I plan not to,’ said Shala.

  ‘You must know then Highness, that with them was their champion of the sword, the Master Yanci-gan.’

  Shala was taken aback by this news. ‘But there are no sword tourneys here, why bring their champion?’ ridiculed Shala with a frown.

  ‘Exactly, Your Highness. My best guess is that Swarztial is going to invoke some historic rite to depose of you in a less... democratic way.’

  ‘Will he challenge me to swords?’ asked Shala, her voice hinting toward laughter.

  ‘No Highness, not directly. It will be an Issue of Champions, and it is not good news. There is no one in this land that can match swords with Yanci-gan, not even our captain Merohan here, though he is your best choice.’

  Shala became grave, and she looked out far across the land. She was aware that Merohan had tightened up at her side by Pasco's lack of faith, but the councilman's blunt statement was true enough. ‘We must not allow them this. Pasco, if you have any objection against Patrick ruling then you must find a way against this. Some rule or law, remnant or forgotten must be dug out. If they cite Issue of Champions I do not know whether any I command will be able to defend my right as Queen.’

  ‘I know Your Highness, and for today, uncommon as that may be, I’ll side with you, and I’ll burn the midnight oil till dawn if that’s how long an answer is in the coming. I’ll scour the old records. It should not come down to this, not to blood when there is reason.’

  Shala did not answer, she'd even let it come to blood if only she had confidence in winning.

  ‘What about Gahum, can we count on him in any way?’ asked Shala.

  ‘Afraid not Highness, he might not cast a ballot against us, but if Patrick challenges you in combat he’ll expect you to deliver such a champion, even if the reality is that you can’t.’

  ‘We haven’t lost yet,’ said Shala, suddenly becoming irritated with their air of resignation, ‘If Merohan is who I choose, we must have faith that he will defeat Yanci-gan.’

  ‘Yes, of course Highness, but let me first see if I can’t find a way to avoid a matching of swords altogether. This matter already feels too much like a war. I beg your leave Your Highness, let me attend to the old annals.’

  ‘Of course, and thank you member Pasco.’

  The man made a solemn bow and left.

  Shala sighed. ‘What do you make of this Captain?’

  Merohan composed himself and said, ‘Tourneys that decide lordship are a thing of the past, and belong these days more to battlefield quarrels. But... I have never heard of such an ask being declined Your Highness, not when the throne is in dispute between two powerful houses. Being cautious I am like to say that if councilman Pasco does not arrive with an answer we will have to match swords with the Sannils.’

  ‘And are you up for it?’

  ‘Of course, until the very moment Yanci-gan draws blood nothing is decided. He might find that I am nothing like tourney combatants. He has yet to come against a soldier of my experience.’

  ‘Then I am appeased,’ lied Shala.

  III

  The following morning there was no trace of member Pasco. At first Shala thought the man was simply caught up in something, or maybe had visited the catacombs, where she knew many old documents and scrolls were also stored. She had been certain he would turn up. Maybe he has visited Scholar Naceus in town, in hopes of burrowing some of his wisdom on the law? Thought Shala hopefully. Whittling her time away in worry, high noon was fast approaching, as that was the symbolic hour of combat that allowed the oculus of the throne room to cast the light upon the floor.

  The council was called and Shala was obligated to go, hoping Pasco would be in attendance. All the same Captain Merohan was at her side and she noticed him in the nervousness of combat.

  On their way to the throne room she was intercepted by Patrick's entourage, his father and his own council tailing him
like richly-dressed dogs. By his side was Yanci-gan, a much more imposing presence than the upstart noble himself. Every stride he took brought a clanking of armour, fully clad in black steel and at his hip hung the sheathed katana sword that had made the man famous in the north.

  The pauldrons he wore were layered like his breastplate, making his shoulders look very wide and further exaggerated by his helm that guarded widely into the back of his neck, with two short ornate horns just above the slit of his eyes. Heavy armour, but a deadly fast sword to compensate.

  Shala regretted staring at the champion as Patrick walked forward and without shame planted a swift kiss on her lips in greeting.

  ‘My Lady, as lovely as ever!’ he exclaimed. Shala was too surprised to have pulled away and was suddenly rooted in anger. Until that day no man but her father had kissed her because of her station, and she had to put aside the mortifying thought of being kissed by this man.

  ‘Don't seem so embarrassed Your Highness, merely a gesture between the noble.’

  ‘Nobility? You think that an excuse to trespass? To come onto me uninvited?’

  Patrick sighed. ‘Truth be told Princess Shala, I have no inclination to this duel Swarztial supposes. I'd rather have you by my side and reconcile what should be a prosperous relationship between Sannil and Evrelyn. Let us put this aside and be wed to me dear Princess. I know my proposal now is untimely and informal, but Swarztial will bring before the court Issue of Champions, and once he does, all the more desirable solutions would be beyond recall.’

  ‘And I will refute him, one way or the other. To you my answer is the same as when you proposed to me months ago; I have no interest in a man who will be a weak King and a cruel husband.’

  ‘You speak needlessly harshly Princess, I had thought Swarztial exaggerates.’

  ‘Do not try and make me feel guilty for doing so. You and your ilk were not even present when my father was buried.’

  ‘The journey is difficult to make, we came with as much haste as we could.’

  ‘And yet lesser pretenders still made it even though covering the same distance. Were you too busy fitting armour to your champion here? Too eager to snatch the crown to be bothered otherwise?’

  Patrick sniffed. ‘Well then, I suppose we have nothing further to discuss. Be warned my Lady, Yanci-gan is unmatched in the north and when I take to the throne the House of Evrelyn will never again be welcome in my realm - consider it recompense for the insults you and your father have laid on me.’

  They passed swiftly by, making for the gallery stairs.

  ‘Don't worry Highness, not even the King can chase away royal families from the realm without being scorned.’

  ‘Yes Captain, but in thinking of such things we have already conceded that Yanci-gan will be triumphant.’ They turned to the throne room, and it was the last place Shala wanted to be.

  Even inside the throne room there was nothing to be seen of member Pasco, and Yanci-gan already stood in the light of the oculus, as still as a statue as he waited for a prospecting opponent. He did however for a moment remove his helm, his face stern and his short hair greying at the temples despite being young still.

  From the gallery Swarztial commanded proceedings and brought before the council the Issue of Champions, speaking on behalf of the Sannil family.

  ‘The suggestion is barbaric, there has not been such blood spilt in these halls for many decades, and it was back when future kings squabbled vainly,’ retorted Shala.

  ‘But the need at the time was great and so the need is great now. Questions arise over your sovereignty and you must answer it if the people wish it,’ said Swarztial.

  ‘You are hardly the people, and how must I account for myself by the sword-arm of someone else?’

  Swarztial sneered. ‘It is said that the blood of the most worthy calls the greatest champion, Lord Patrick already has his. If your claim to the throne is as indomitable as you suggest Your Highness, a fine warrior will rise to represent you in the tourney of the throne room.’

  Shala was appalled. This place would now be slandered with bloodshed, and she could offer no other choice unless Pasco showed himself. And at that he needed to provide something to allay the challenge laid down by the Sannils. The House of Evrelyn was deemed thin and she needed to establish herself worthy. But she could not take this chance, because there was little chance against Yanci-gan.

  ‘I refuse to agree to this, though my standing might be blemished, I can't allow such a duel here!’

  Swarztial turned up a smug smile. ‘Let me remind you then Highness that we spoke of rituals and hallowed traditions, which are sought to be protected by your House and which you defended so bravely before this very council. Is it that you recant away from traditions such as the challenge to swords to your convenience, so that you may stay in power?’

  Shala's heart sunk into her stomach and she was horrified to have walked so blindly into this. Of course Swarztial had brought up the matter of Des Pellu that day with more intention than Shala would have guessed at the time. She defended traditions of the realm, and now she would be shown as a two-faced ruler if she doubled back on her word. Swarztial had her snared, and her anger at the man was only matched by the anger at herself.

  Merohan stood closer and motioned for silent council with the Princess. The Captain of the household guard assumed their predicament, and all but knew that the Princess could no longer back out of this challenge without completely losing the faith of the Council.

  ‘Your Highness, I must offer myself as your champion,’ said Merohan with urgency. The Princess could not see Merohan winning, and yet there was no better than he in the castle. Surely Gremhalden in his prime, but the old Knight could not carry himself in combat as he did before his fall. Of course any of the other Knights would have been more than ideal, being at least a challenge to Yanci-gan, and Shala was sure one of them would have aligned with her and offered himself as a champion.

  And yet Swarztial had gone to great lengths to ensure none but the crippled Gremhalden were present in Attoras. Once again she realized the extent of Swarztial's malice; how he had seen to every contingency. Shala was not in the habit of fearing men, but she was now growing helpless in countering Swarztial.

  ‘Have you decided Lady Shala? Or do you feel your rule wavering in this hour?’ mocked Swarztial, certain he had the Princess cornered. ‘Is there someone beyond this room you would wish to call? Of course we would accept a resignation if Your Highness feels-’

  The heavy doors of the throne room burst open, slamming against the wall as they swung apart, wrenching every eye to the threshold. Shala sincerely hoped it was Pasco who had found the might to smash open the doors like that, but she doubted it.

  With the sudden light introduced from the outside it took a while for them to see a man standing there, geared for battle, and with an animalistic mask on his face. Shala squinted vainly to see who it was. The guards closed on him, pointing spears at the intruder. He stopped briefly, but did not even look at those barring his way.

  ‘I come seeking council with Princess Shala Salstasha of House Evrelyn!’ he commanded, and his words put a strange hope in Shala.

  Swarztial stalked the circular gallery, until he could get a proper view of the intruder.

  From where Shala sat she could confirm that the man was indeed masked, a steel helm lined with silver, and the pointed ears that were visible from a distance became an outline that had the gallery squirming, and they hummed in discussion.

  Wolfshead, thought Shala, but she was as confused as the rest of the council. She thought she ought to do something, or say something, but felt rather frozen, and rather curious besides.

  ‘What is this? The royal council is busy with the future of the Kingdom! And how did you get in here? Those doors were locked! This is trespass!’

  ‘Barred only to the unworthy,’ said the man, ‘I bid you Chancellor Swarztial, that you spoke of Her Highness’ right to the throne in calli
ng an able-bodied warrior. I will offer myself as such.’

  Still no one could recognize him past his mask.

  ‘Let him pass!’ commanded Shala from the throne.

  Without further invitation the man marched passed the unsure spears, the council members all eyeing him with suspicion. This they did not expect. He approached purposefully, his movement filled with danger. It surprised her, but the man kneeled briefly before Shala, and stood up before she could acknowledge or address him.

  With him closer now she saw he wasn’t as heavily armed as she thought, wearing only a tough black leather jerkin, crisscrossed with belts over the chest, and edged with tufts of wolf fur on the shoulders, his arms bared and showing strong lean muscle. He wore gloves and boots and trousers of a simple kind, and did not look much suited for the task except for the grace of his movements.

  The mask he wore made his identity a mystery, not being able to recognize him from his longish copper hair at the back, and she was certain she had never seen his silver earrings before. The mask itself was fashioned in the likeliness of a wolf’s head, made so that it could fit the face of a man, the ears upright, the snout short and the eye sockets slanted and angry. The Wolfshead had no lower jaw, as to open the mouth area of the wearer.

  ‘The mask you wear seems highly familiar, where might you have stolen such an artefact?’ accused Swarztial from above.

  ‘The mask is mine, and it marks me for what I am, a Wolf of the Black Mountains, of the Severangati, the Order of Severance...’

  Laughter rippled through the council, led by Swarztial and the Sannils.

  ‘Are you stupid lad? The Wolves are long dead, and no longer in the commission of the King even if they did still live.’

  ‘Then I pray to you, be at rest, believe your own lie if it comforts you, but it will not save your champion from me.’

  The council looked unsettled at his suggestion, their mirth cut short. The Wolf walked up to the throne, where Shala sat tensed, her hands still knotted on the arms of the grand chair. For a moment she wanted to cry out and let her guards tackle the man. Merohan indeed stepped in front of the Princess, his hand ready on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘To be expected Captain of the guard, I only ask for swift audience,’ said the Wolf, as though dismissing Merohan.

  ‘Let him address me for the moment,’ said Shala softly to the captain.

  ‘I’m watching,’ said Merohan at the intruder, standing aside, but still close by so that he could listen in, and act if need be.

  Shala sat forward. ‘I bid you warrior, remove your mask and tell me your name.’

  ‘No Highness, my name and identity will avail you nothing. I am here only to offer myself as your champion, and I will not fail should your trust be offered. But you must decide fast!’

  Shala looked at his eyes set deep behind the mask, crisp blue, and fierce, fully determined as if he had been prepared for this fight even before the vile council members could have fathomed the plan.

  ‘My Lady I do not like this, he is sent by the council members themselves, so that they may assure victory! He will fail on purpose and laugh afterwards at how gullible we are even as they attend to his cuts!’ urged Merohan quietly.

  ‘Stay your tongue if you cannot give good council Merohan,’ said the man. ‘My Lady, in your prayer you asked for the health of your father. It did not come to pass, but let me be the answer to saving what’s left of his House.’

  ‘Do you listen in on every privacy!?’ hissed Shala, wondering where this man could’ve possibly hid at the time.

  ‘Rather me than all the others who spy and whisper in this castle. Give me your trust! My Lady...?’ he said, looking hard at her.

  On the back of this man were two short swords sheathed in a cross, the hilts peeking over his shoulders and crafted from polished white bone. He has the mask of a Wolf, she thought and she knew only the Savage Art of the old order made use of two swords, one in each hand. Shala’s mind made knots and tangles, indecision threatening. Where is Naceus when I need him? Ask the right questions he would say...

  ‘Can you defeat a champion like Yanci-gan?’ she asked forcefully, hoping to glean a true answer from the man.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes remaining unchanged behind the mask and Shala saw self-assurance if nothing else. It was not enough to soothe her over.

  ‘What was the creed of the Wolves?’ she asked.

  ‘We are but ghosts,’ answered the man. Shala was almost surprised. She was so determined to find any little lie in the man before her. ‘I have walked the mountain and stood at the summit, tested by the cold. I have stared far out from the cradle and witnessed the tundra. I was in service to your father, Highness, and now I'm bound to you.’

  Shala sat in silence, stricken by indecision. My father has made no mention of Wolves still in existence.

  ‘That means little Highness, he's a lunatic to my eye. If he is an imposter he could have read the old scripts and-’ Shala held up her hand to silence Merohan and she looked at the warrior. Taking a deep breath Shala said, ‘Then so be it. With you rests the fate of my father’s house.’

  With a single nod the man turned away from her.

  Shala clenched her jaw tight as the warrior took the circle, Yanci-gan approaching in full battle dress of breastplate and fauld, enamelled black, the layered steel fashioned like lobster scales, looking impenetrable and interwoven almost artistically.

  ‘Do you not wish to dress? I'll allow for time if you wish to visit the armoury - you have little besides that relic you call a mask,’ asked Yanci-gan, offering the Wolf the same advantage he carried on his own body.

  Shala thought that was rather honourable from him, considering who he represented.

  ‘Don't give him fashion advice Yanci-gan! Make him bleed!’ bellowed Patrick from the gallery. The council laughed. His father Hanson pulled him back into the chair and gave him a stern look.

  ‘This is how I come to combat,’ said the Wolf curtly, ‘would you not rather remove your armour? It may end up saving your life if you lay it aside now,’ said the Wolf with sincerity.

  That made the gallery chuckle again.

  ‘No, unfortunately that would be foolish advice to follow, especially coming from my opponent.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the Wolf, as though he were uttering a death sentence.

  From the twin sheaths set in a cross on his back the man calling himself Wolf reached over and drew two bronze blades. Shala was close enough to see they were a fine craft, the edges deadly sharp so that they glistened catching the light from the oculus. But they were nonetheless made from a lesser alloy and Shala wondered on the wisdom of electing him.

  Those blades are trophies, they will not last against a steel sword. Can the warriors defending my throne not even bear proper arms?

  But then she watched the man go about a routine before battle, drawing the swords slowly through the air, cutting invisible enemies as he stretched, the blades whistling tunelessly; nothing but the keenest of edges could accomplish that. The blades were leaf-like, the thick middle tapering to a sharp point belying the swords’ length Shala realized. In the hands of this man they were made for speed, cutting an artery here and there, and moving on to a next foe, leaving many hamstrung in his wake as they bled out.

  The champion he faced however would not be resolved by a simple display of speed or a single bold manoeuvre. In tourneys of swordplay Yanci-gan laid waste to both the freakishly strong and fast, crumbling the hopes of gamblers who favoured the payout of untested newcomers.

  I’m no better, I’ve just staked my Kingdom on a man I don’t know, thought Shala, struggling to battle down panic. At least the man she had chosen still displayed an unnatural air of confidence and Yanci-gan was still looking at the self-proclaimed Wolf as though he were unwell. I could just as well have asked Rolf the squire to represent me, he too is arrogant.

  Dieral, the Master of ceremonies recited the ritual and then
moved onto the rules which he listed in a droning voice. ‘...No taunting from the crowd, no person, noble or otherwise, to interfere with the duel... Herewith the electorate will forego the ballot, duty of the council, and settle the right to the throne in a duel of swords. Escaping daylight, for any significant time will signal forfeiture...’

  The sunlight on the floor is a virtual cage for them, thought Shala, now appreciating the dimensions the duel would have.

  ‘Engaged, no party may withdraw from these conditions, the outcome must be final, and the victor assured of ascendency.’

  Dieral looked first to the gallery and garnered the agreement of House Sannil. They did so without pause. When the Master of ceremonies turned to Shala she nodded simply because there was no other way.

  ‘May the Benevolence guide their blades and His judgement show us the way! May the blood of the worthy prevail!’

  Yanci-gan put on his helm and drew the katana at his waist, the slick steel screech unnerving Shala. The Wolf bunched his shoulders, the readiness of a predator settling into his limbs.

  With his ornate staff the Master of Ceremonies struck the floor, startling Shala, and the echo had barely passed through stone when the Wolf leapt. Before Shala could anticipate any movement the bronze blades were glancing fearsomely from Yanci-gan’s length of steel. The exchange was terrific, the hardly noticed foot movements putting the warriors in a routine circling each other and going back and forth across the sunlit floor.

  The Wolf's lasting impression was relentless and Yanci-gan showed himself of immeasurable skill in warding off the two swords that came often from impossible angles. Regardless of the courage in Merohan’s heart he would not have lasted more than a few moments with Yanci-gan. But then the champion of the Sannils had never faced one such as Shala now favoured.

  He was more than just a nuisance, more than just a boastful man; moving swiftly out of reach and often spiralling or twirling into contact again, his quicksilver cuts and stabs forcing Yanci-gan to defend to every extent and depth, even forcing the champion to kick out backwards as the bronze blades came dangerously low at the ankles. Having avoided losing a foot, Yanci-gan turned on his heel and struck overhead in an arc, and to meet it the Wolf was pushed to his knees, swords crossed above his head to catch Yanci-gan’s heavier sword.

  The Wolf pushed with his swords in a scissor fashion and from the tips of his toes he drove himself up, throwing the weight of Yanci-gan clear off him and going into attack again; to stab, and cut, then coming around again spinning to slash. Yanci-gan guarded true against the fury, using the targe on his wrist to good effect when his katana was too slow on defence. When he deflected the man thus the Wolf simply came at him harder. By now Shala had forgotten of her worry of the bronze blades, they were as unbending as the man who carried them.

  The Wolves were long dead, she kept reminding herself. Yet his style and movements held some remnant of the Savage Art of swords belonging to the old order. The scripts Shala had read came alive before her; the blend of blades and the bolster, the sickle arm and the sextant, along with other disciplines that had Shala puzzling as to where they belonged in lore. At times his movements seemed reckless, until they melded into strikes of precision, or defensive parries that showed his infallible awareness of his opponent.

  The two warriors elicited the best from each other, and what would have been a swiftly decided contest against any other man was a now a spectacle. And yet many of the Wolf’s cuts had landed on Yanci-gan’s armour, leaving thin white scars on the plating where wounds should have been.

  It is not fair! thought Shala desperately, knowing the fight should’ve been over had Yanci-gan not worn his armour. Yet the armour also made Yanci-gan slower and she reconsidered how different the fight might've been without it.

  Finally using the weight of his blade Yanci-gan pushed the Wolf back and then quickly he reversed the cut, the edge slicing into a bared arm. Shala winced, her heart fluttering in defeat. All that was hoped for came crashing down around her. She sunk back into the chair she would have to give up to Patrick.

  The masked warrior backed away in pain, Yanci-gan standing erect in victory and holding his sword in salute, the upper edge flecked with the Wolf's blood. The Master of ceremonies raised his staff, the gallery already applauding...

  ‘Hold!’ cried the masked warrior, his sweat making the blood thin and running down his arm. At least it looked to be a shallow wound, one Shala could easily attend to.

  ‘The battle is not over...’ he said laughingly to the gallery. ‘Look at the cuts on his armour, do they not count for anything?’

  ‘But how then will you decide this battle if cuts can’t decide it?’ cried Swarztial mockingly. Shala could see that up until this moment Swarztial had been more than a little flustered. He has been as tense as I am.

  ‘Death,’ uttered the warrior, ‘when you sent in your champion you have marked this man for death. Did you think I allowed him in full armour for nothing? Because I'm a fool? No. He must kill me, or else I will kill him!’

  The entire throne room was shocked and uncertain. The Sannil family didn’t look too willing to lose someone like Yanci-gan. Shala felt strangely the same about her champion. Her warrior had sustained a bad cut as far as combat was concerned, and for all his bravado she could not see him winning now.

  She did not want to finally learn the identity of such an ally by tearing the mask off his dead face. In fact she was certain she could not bear seeing a death here, and would have left the chamber if she wasn’t central to this matter. Maybe she could still stop this and save his life? It would cost her the crown however.

  ‘The party that backs out forfeits the right to the crown,’ reminded Dieral to all, clearly attuned to what everyone was thinking. ‘And the Wolf is right, the battle cannot end in any way other than death if first blood is not the qualifier. That is an ancient rule.’

  ‘You would allow this?’ bellowed Swarztial down at Dieral.

  ‘Actually member Swarztial, strictly holding to tradition of course, these bouts were always decided by death. Those in history decided by cuts are few and far between, and are more characteristic of the men far south, down in Avandar, where they prefer show over substance. I'll be remiss if I do not allow the duel to play out as it should.’

  ‘I refuse!’ said Swarztial.

  ‘I don't care that you do Chancellor. I did not call the fight to an end when Her Highness' man scored a cut on the plates of Yanci-gan and I'm not going to do so now.’

  Shala breathed again as Dieral gave another chance to this duel. Bless your fat heart Dieral, I'll never make fun of your weight again.

  The masked warrior looked at her and silently those icy eyes told her that he was still able to fight. That for her, he would not stop for anything. She nodded at him faithfully, although she knew she didn’t inspire much, her face worried and unsure. It seemed to be all that he needed and he turned into the circle of light again.

  Yanci-gan stood like a statue, looking up at his lieges and awaiting their command. It did not take long and they gave him a nod.

  ‘Unto death,’ said Dieral and slammed the staff on the ground, the ring sounding commencement. They closed in on each other again, somewhat more careful and slow, knowing it was to the death. Fatigue was reckoned for as well, the fervour of their initial display turned deliberate and technical, blades screeching as they pushed in attack, the steel and bronze looking magnetised to each other.

  Yanci-gan seemed to realize the mistake soon enough, discarding the engagement that better suited his opponent and started battering at him with long fluid strokes, working fiercely against a defence that had only one good arm.

  And the Wolf used that arm but sparingly. He was often driven onto the back-foot or into retreat, desperately placating Yanci-gan’s well placed strokes, and sometimes using swift movements with his feet to outdistance his heavier opponent. But the circle of light was only that big and Yanci-gan pursued ever
y time.

  With each new attack Shala would see her warrior’s death, but the Wolf resisted the onslaught, blade on blade, and even twice more he gained cuts on Yanci-gan’s armour that availed him nothing but pride. They were a match as far as Shala could tell and it did not bode well for the Wolf with a bleeding arm.

  A cloud moved in front of the sun and the two men stopped as the circle of light disappeared on the floor, the hall growing dark. It was as sudden an intermission as Shala had yet seen. They stepped back to opposite ends of the court, but their gazes on each other remained unbroken. It took Shala a moment to realize what was a happening and she wondered if her heart was the only one beating like this. If the rest of the day becomes overcast, does the fight wait for another day? She curiously looked toward Master Dieral, but the frown on his face made it clear to Shala; the daylight rule would not apply in a fight to the death...

  And before Dieral could say something, flecks of sunlight returned as the cloud overheard grew thin, and everyone waited anxiously as the full circle reappeared. The Wolf twirled into contact again, and Yanci-gan met the attack stoically. It took him only moments to push the Wolf back, the weight of his armour and sword always counting.

  Compensating for his weaker arm the Wolf was tiring as Yanci-gan drove many strikes overhead, pushing at breaking through, driving the Wolf back to the edge of the sunlight yet again and cutting high at the right shoulder where the Wolf now struggled. There was still composure and bravery even in retreat as he met the steel sword, the Savage Art under duress many-facetted, a complex weave of movements that were often attack and defence simultaneously.

  But there was no give in Yanci-gan and there was no give in his armour, the Wolf suffocated toward the edges of light again - and then quite suddenly allowed himself to be driven out of bounds of the sunlit floor, after he had done so much to remain within its borders. He held up his swords in submission, and then Yanci-gan relented, his attack faltering.

  The confusion struck the entire court simultaneously, and again it was only Dieral and Shala that seem to appreciate that the sunlit floor no longer carried any weight. This fight could only end in one way. It was only she and Dieral that knew... and the Wolf.

  In the moment that Dieral refused to slam his staff the Wolf revealed his trickery and lunged forward, illuminated back into sunlight, hammering his masked head into the mouth of Yanci-gan's helm where the metal grill was pliable. Following a sickening metal clang Yanci-gan staggered back and did his utmost to defend against the quicksilver attacks of the Wolf now. But Shala saw that he was in trouble, dazed from the blow to the head and his legs treading drunkenly.

  The Wolf placated Yanci-gan's sword and going from one unexpected to the next, stowed his swords away within his belt in the blink of an eye. Before anyone could linger on the gesture, he launched himself at his opponent in a high leap, both his boots coming at Yanci-gan's head as though aiming for a kick. But the Wolf's legs went past either side of his head, effectively sitting on Yanci-gan shoulders as his feet dangled down his back. In one swift movement he reached over the champion's helm and grasped the undersides of the pauldrons where they came together on the upper back. Pulling, the Wolf flipped backwards off his human perch, stripping and coming away with the entirety of the interlocking armour as he tumbled; the pauldrons, protecting the shoulders... the gorget, guarding the neck... and the helm from his head dislodged and rolling across the floor. Landing on his feet, hunched, the Wolf cast aside the armour and pulled his swords from his waist. Where the pauldrons fell Shala saw enough to realize one of the Wolf's many hits on the armour had clearly severed one of the straps keeping the upper body armour fastened to the champion's frame. A solution to Yanci-gan's defences had been in the making all along.

  If Yanci-gan had been startled by any of this he did not show it, forwarding an assault on the Wolf with the katana sweeping through the air. The Wolf had his blades up just in the nick of time. But Yanci-gan looked vulnerable and much less certain in his movements.

  Another desperate sidelong slash came from him and the Wolf spun in underneath it, ducking as the katana passed overhead, the two champions passing by one another back-to-back for a second.

  Overextended Yanci-gan brought back a terrible backhand cut to chase, but the Wolf, hunkered down and spinning on the balls of his feet, had already punched up the blade from his left hand, and found Yanci-gan's armpit as he turned into it. With the champion exposed, the bronze sword struck right through the shoulder with the point protruding near Yanci-gan's ear and the katana at speed fell hopelessly out of reach from suddenly rigid fingers.

  Shala could not believe her eyes.

  Yanci-gan suffered for a moment, suspended on the blade impaling him, and then the Wolf swept the other bronze blade in a backhand cut, running it effortlessly through his neck, opening up a red smile that spewed blood and ultimately bestowing mercy. The court looked on morbidly, and just for a second Shala felt the same terror that had made men of all sides question the continued existence of the Wolves through the years.

  The Wolf put up his boot against the man's breastplate and withdrew the blade from the man's body. Yanci-gan fell dead with a crunch, a pool of crimson forming around him. There were gasps, followed by angry whispers from the council members, and to Shala’s right hand Merohan himself was wide-eyed. The Master of ceremonies did not even strike the floor with his staff, death apparently was final enough.

  The Wolf took a deep breath, wiping Yanci-gan's blood from his mouth just below the mask, and looked up to the gallery. ‘Chancellor Swarztial, I would ask that you stop your incessant scheming, and do not even attempt at more subtle ways. I may not be seen, but I see much, and no dagger or poison will make it to the Princess on my watch,’ said the Wolf.

  ‘Damned conspirator! How many more lies will you bring into this hallowed place, guards take him!’ screamed Swarztial from above.

  ‘No, don’t!’ commanded Shala in counter, the soldiers stopping in their tracks yet again.

  The Wolf turned to Shala, ‘Your Grace,’ is all he said, and took his leave whilst casting a last warning glance at the gallery, strolling right out the way he had come in.

  No one moved or said anything until he was gone. No one followed him or barred him, like he was a ghost, or like a spell hung around him that rooted other men. For the first time Shala could remember she looked at Swarztial, and behold, she thought, the man who always got the last say, was tongue-tied and dim-witted, outraged, looking stunned where he stood, so very aware of House Sannil’s disappointment in him - their fury by the look of it. He had all but promised them the throne.

  To be fair Shala herself did not understand what had just transpired here, and the reality of a dead champion lying on her floor brought about a sombreness only a graveyard could offer. But she was not upset. It kindled a strange hope in her; she did not believe that nonsense Swarztial said about the blood of the worthy calling the greatest champion, but for now and today, she hid her satisfaction, the satisfaction of knowing that men would still rise to defend her right as Queen.

  The Wolves were an order long dead, and the man now gone was assuredly an imposter like Swarztial claimed. But for the savage skill of his swords and the dead man no one seemed to attend to, Shala and all the others could not prove him to be false.

  There was a din up in the gallery, the council talking heatedly amongst themselves. Shala stood up tall and Dieral tapped his ceremonial staff with a short sharp jab to the floor to get their attention toward the Princess. There was something in that tap that said, “Your Queen wishes to speak.”

  ‘I hope you are satisfied,’ she spoke to them, her voice rearing loud, ‘you’ve put an unkindly test to my heritage, and I staunched your vain attempts to prove me unworthy. You cost a fine man his life for your purposes, and you do not even send men to take him away. He died on my floor, so my disciples will take him and give him a good burial among warriors that served the castle in the p
ast, lest you have no honour at all and throw your fallen toy in some ditch like I suspect you will.

  ‘This atrocious meeting is adjourned and I hope we never have its kind again. And for all of you who seem to think otherwise, I’m still closer to the throne than any other, and when I’m Queen, there will be no rituals of the Council you can hide behind. If you scheme then like you do now, I’ll have you put to death, for I believe what you do now against me is called treason!’

  She had them shamed and silenced.

  ‘Merohan, start the search for this man, but meet me afterwards on the tower, I need a warrior to speak to,’ said Shala quietly to the captain of the guard. Before she left, glad to be doing so, she heard a heated argument start between Dieral and Swarztial, the Chancellor accusing him of failing to call the fight when the Wolf was pushed outside the limits. Dieral countered with his own arguments. Shala did not want to get embroiled in technicalities. Their voices grew faint as she walked faster still, her heart still racing and her mind reeling at what had just happened.