by Darian Smith
Brannon grunted. “Small thing. Really?”
The corner of Aldan's mouth turned wryly. “Yes, well. There have been smaller things.” He stared at the fluttering fringe on the shade canopy. The fickle thing swayed back and forth at the wind's whim. “The first gold shipment from Sandilar since the duke's arrest is due tomorrow. I'd like you and your team to meet it and provide an escort to the palace treasury.”
Brannon frowned. “Don't you usually have guards for that? My team is investigating a murder at the moment.”
“You can do both, I'm sure,” Aldan said. “I need people I can trust on this. Lately, they've been in short supply.”
Below them, the gates opened into the arena and several black-robed magistrates emerged with Duke Roydan between them, his hands bound in front of him. The crowd roared. Some of them threw food scraps and rotted fruit at the prisoner, causing the magistrates to momentarily scatter to avoid being hit. Roydan ignored it, staring at his hands as if lost in thought.
King Aldan leaned close to Brannon's ear. “Where's Tomidan? I wanted the boy to see this.”
Brannon scratched at the scar on his face. “I sent him away. He's seen enough of his family killed for one so young.”
The carefully schooled smile on the king's face slipped, replaced with the flicker of a frown. “His grandfather was a traitor, Brannon. He needs to understand the consequences of that.”
“He does, Aldan. But he's a child. And he's your family. He needs your compassion now.”
The king sighed. “Perhaps. It's Hooded hard to know what to do with the boy. He's the closest thing I have to an available heir in my family tree, but he's the fruit of a poisonous branch and very young.” He shook his head. “The nobles are getting nervous about a clear line of succession again.”
“Well, you could always marry again and have another child,” Brannon told him. “It wouldn't solve the age issue but it would be a better line of succession to have a child of your own ready for the throne.”
Aldan scowled. “I already have a wife and child.”
Brannon glanced away from the pain in his friend's eyes. It was a conversation they'd had many times in the years since the war, but it had to be repeated. He faced the challenge again. “You had a wife and child, Aldan. Sharela and Claydan have been gone a long time. We all lost people in the war, but it's time to move on.”
“I can't . . .” Aldan hesitated. “Not without having found their bodies, Brannon,” he said quietly. “Maybe not even then. Sharela was the one.”
Brannon nodded. He'd known what the answer would be. “Well, I suppose you could get Draeson to see if he can find some royal bastards. There could still be some scattered around. They wouldn't be legitimate so the succession might be a little messy but . . .”
“Very funny.” The king chuckled wryly.
“Then, with Keldan gone now too, you're stuck with Tommy as heir. And you don't want to put a traumatized child on the throne.”
“I suppose not.” Aldan took a deep breath as the jeers from the crowd died down. “You've gotten wise in your old age, Bloodhawk. A smart ass, but wise.”
“You know I hate that name.”
“Yeah.” This time the king's chuckle contained the golden warmth Brannon knew so well. “I do.”
In the arena, the lead magistrate, a gray haired woman with a crimson ribbon sewn around the edge of her robe to denote her position, addressed the crowd. “Here stands Duke Roydan, formerly of the province Sandilar, traitor to Kalanon. He has invoked his right to trial by combat with the King's Champion.”
One of the other magistrates cut the ropes binding Roydan's hands and he raised his head to look at the gate through which the champion would enter.
“On this day, we have a new King's Champion to fight with Duke Roydan: Darnec Raldene.”
The gate opened and Darnec walked out onto the dirt and sawdust floor of the arena.
“No!” Roydan's eyes widened and he stared about him. His cry was lost in the roar of surprise from the crowd.
The young man wore the uniform of the King's Guard with a chain mail vest over it. He held yet more chain mail over one arm and waved to the crowd with the other. The noise did not subside. Some of the crowd began to boo.
Magus Draeson leaned forward and tapped Brannon on the shoulder. “It's you they came to see,” he said. “Not this nobody. The last time he was in this arena he was the one on trial.”
“Blood and Tears,” Brannon muttered. “We're going to have to help him out.”
“Give him a moment,” Aldan said.
Darnec walked over to the prisoner and, without a word, handed him the chain mail he'd been carrying. It was a vest the same as what he was wearing himself.
“Hooded idiot,” Brannon muttered.
“No, watch,” said Aldan. “It shows confidence and fair play. They will like it.”
Roydan snatched the offering and shrugged it into place while the magistrates stood guard around him. Sure enough, as the audience understood what had been offered, they quieted down. Soon there was silence again.
“Now.” Aldan tapped Brannon’s shoulder, his voice low. “Show them you have faith in him.”
Brannon stood up and pushed the hood back from his face. “My apprentice!” His voice boomed like a battle cry in the war.
Darnec looked up and saluted. “Sir Brannon.”
Brannon drew his sword and held it out, one palm under the hilt, the other under the blade. “You are my sword today and you serve our king and Kalanon well.” He leaned forward intending to drop the blade into the arena for Darnec to use as a sign of his approval but the voice of the king stopped him.
“Wait. Give him mine.”
“Your Majesty?”
Aldan stood and drew his sword. The crowd broke into applause.
Brannon sheathed his own sword and took the one the king handed him.
Aldan sat again and Brannon moved forward. “As I delegate this part of the King's Champion role to you, my apprentice, so too does the king place his faith in you. Serve us well.” He dropped the blade into the arena. Darnec picked it up and saluted again. Brannon saluted him back and then took his seat once more next to the king.
“That's a Nilarian blade, isn't it?” he murmured.
Aldan smiled. “Yes, it is.”
“That gives him an advantage again, despite the chain mail.”
“Yes, it does.”
The magistrates brought out a sword for Roydan to use—a simple weapon of weaker, Kalan steel—and moved to their posts at the edge of the arena to witness. The two combatants eyed each other carefully, awaiting the signal to begin.
Before it was given, one of the royal guards stepped in from the side of the king's box and bowed. “Your Majesty, Ambassador Ylani has arrived and wonders if she might join you.”
Brannon, Aldan, and Draeson all looked past the guard. The Nilarian ambassador was a picture of serenity, her long, dark hair set in elaborate curls beneath a wide-brimmed hat and her slim figure highlighted in a gown of cobalt blue and silver silk.
“She said to tell Your Majesty that she noticed you had a spare seat and she would appreciate a spot in the shade . . .”
“That hat provides almost as much,” Draeson muttered.
“. . . And that she was instrumental in bringing Duke Roydan's plot to your attention and that your two great nations should be seen to be working together in this moment of resolution.” The guard stood stiffly as he finished his recitation.
“Did she indeed?” The earlier humor had gone out of Aldan's voice but he nodded. “Send her in.”
Brannon smiled a welcome as the Nilarian ambassador took a seat. Ylani nodded in return, but it was clear she was there to see the king. She wasted no time but spoke in a quiet, firm voice.
“Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me. We need to confirm our delicate situation as soon as possible.”
“Not now, ambassador. My cousin's trial is about to begin.”
> Ylani's jaw tensed. “And that is part of the situation to be resolved. I realize this is an inappropriate time to raise this issue but my attempts to speak with you through the usual channels have been denied and my government is pressuring me greatly. I don't think either of us wants to make a bigger incident over what has happened here.”
Brannon frowned. “Ylani, what's going on?”
“We want our weapons back,” Ylani said. “The Nilarian steel sword shipment that was sent to Duke Roydan in his coup attempt. They are our property, after all, and illegally obtained by Duke Roydan.”
Draeson snorted. “You say illegally obtained. The whole scheme could just as easily have been sanctioned by your government.”
“Then why would I have revealed it to you?” she snapped. “Why not just let it happen as planned? You know that's nonsense and you know we cannot have Kalan armies outfitted with Nilarian weapons. Out of decency for my part in stopping what Roydan planned, I ask you to give them back. Please.”
Aldan stared at his cousin in the arena below. Roydan, Darnec, and the magistrates were all still and silent, waiting for the royal signal to begin.
“I hear the request of Nilar,” King Aldan said. “And I will give you my answer at the conclusion of our business here today.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ylani said. “That's all I ask.”
Aldan raised his hand and the trial by combat began.
It was a battle between youthful strength and hard-won experience. Roydan had let himself go physically in the years since the war, trading the muscled body of a soldier for the pampered pudge of a successful businessman, but his mind was shrewd and he knew how to fight. Darnec was less experienced but he was young, fast, and strong, and he was a quick learner. Brannon had trained him hard in the time they'd had. His old injuries had healed well and he was in prime form. Unfortunately, not knowing that the sword he carried was of Nilarian steel meant he was unaware of the advantage he could press. Even if he had known, Brannon doubted the boy had ever seen the way Nilarians used their superior weapons to break Kalan blades.
They circled, testing each other, eyes wary, swords raised and ready. Darnec kept moving, forcing Roydan to do the same.
“Good boy,” Brannon muttered under his breath. “Wear him out.”
Darnec feinted, faking impatience. Roydan moved to deflect it and the younger man lunged to take advantage of the opening but the duke recognized the ploy and pulled back, leaving Darnec the one exposed.
Roydan thrust a counterattack which, in his prime, would have skewered Darnec, but Brannon's apprentice was too fast, flinging himself to the side to avoid the blade. He lost his footing, rolled in the dirt, and then sprung to his feet again in one swift motion.
Roydan chuckled. The two of them circled once more.
Brannon let out his pent breath in a slow, forced exhale. His hands were gripped into fists, his back stiff and straight. Beside him, the king sat as if carved from granite, his eyes fixed on the fighters.
Draeson leaned forward, touching each of them on the shoulder. “So what are you two going to do if Roydan wins this?” he said.
Aldan spoke between gritted teeth, his voice low and thick. “He better Hooded not win.”
The clang of steel on steel rang out, loud as a thunderclap. Then another. And another. The two men were now fully engaged. Darnec expended twice as much energy as Roydan as he moved around the arena, his feet kicking up sawdust, his expression devoid of any hint as to which was a true strike and which just a fake to wear his opponent out.
Roydan's strikes were strategic and considered, but always came just short of the younger man's body as Darnec danced out of the way. Roydan's face glistened in the hot sun and his tunic beneath the chain mail was dark with sweat.
Roydan's blade lashed out like a viper. This time it came away red.
Brannon twitched in his seat. Air scraped in and out of his lungs, burning and rough. He clenched his jaw and refused to look away.
In the arena, Darnec wiped blood from his forearm. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled. He charged at Roydan, his body leaning into the movement, driving himself forward.
The duke stood, stoic, prepared, his sword near quivering. Brannon recognized the expression on his friend's face—triumph.
“Blood and Tears,” murmured Aldan. “The boy's getting himself killed.”
“Wait for it,” Brannon said. “Wait for it.”
Darnec closed in, Roydan moved to strike, thinking he'd goaded the younger man into a rash move. At the last moment, Darnec dropped and rolled, the force of his momentum sweeping Roydan's legs out from under him. A moment later, the new King's Champion had his knee in the small of Roydan's back, pressing him into the dirt. Roydan's sword lay out of reach and his arm was twisted painfully behind him.
“Stop! Wait! Mercy!” Duke Roydan spat sawdust, and turned his head to look up at the king's box in the stands, to his friends. “Aldan, please.”
Darnec hesitated, waiting for the king's response. The tip of his sword rested at the back of Roydan's neck.
Brannon felt the tension thrumming in his friend's body beside him. After all the years the three of them had fought side by side in the war, it had finally come to this.
Aldan drew in a long, shuddering breath but his back stayed straight and his face hard. He spoke, not to his cousin, but to Darnec. “Finish it.”
The sword pushed down. A gasp rose from the crowd and the duke's body slumped and was still.
The magistrates and their medical teams moved in to verify the kill and see to Darnec's wounds. Within moments, Roydan's corpse was hidden from view and carried away with whatever dignity remained. Justice was served.
Brannon closed his eyes and swallowed. Somehow the lump in his chest only got bigger. The numbness he'd used to push away grief during the war was weak and lazy now. He'd seen too much, grieved too many friends. Roydan was one of his oldest and closest. Now he was gone.
“Your Majesty, Sir Brannon, I'm sorry for your loss.”
He opened his eyes and saw Ambassador Ylani looking at them both. Her own dark eyes glistened, like polished mahogany.
The muscle in Aldan's temple twitched. “Kalanon does not need your pity, ambassador. Your people corrupted a traitor and I have dealt with it. That is all you need to know. Feel free to pass that knowledge back to your government.”
Ylani's eyes widened and her mouth worked helplessly. “I didn't mean to imply—”
“Furthermore,” Aldan continued, speaking over her, “the answer to your earlier request, is no. Nilar will not get its weapons returned. Nilarian weapons took more than enough from Kalanon during the war and now they have taken my cousin too. Nilar deserves no consideration from me.”
“Your Majesty, it is hardly special consideration when the weapons are Nilar's property.”
Aldan stood, turning his back to her, and his guards moved in closer. “You have your answer, ambassador. Do with it what you will.”
Chapter Five
Darnec tugged at the bandage on his forearm, testing the tightness of it with his fingers. The stitches ached beneath layers of wrapped gauze.
Master Jordell slapped his hand away and continued rolling the fabric around his wound with barely a pause. “Leave it alone, boy. Unless you want a huge, ugly scar.”
Darnec shrugged. “I got it defending the country from a traitor. People might think it's sexy.”
The physician snorted. “True. People often find the dumbest things attractive.” He tapped the top of the dressing, making Darnec wince. “There, you're all done. Keep it clean and see me again in a couple of days. Sooner, if it looks infected.”
The treatment room at the arena was empty of all but the two of them. The other physicians had already finished their work and left. The shelves held an array of bandages, ointments, and other medical supplies but Darnec was the only one for whom they'd been used today. Large stone tubs had been filled with warm water to bathe wounds and t
hat water was already drained.
Roydan's body had already been checked, washed, and covered in a sheet, ready to be shipped back to Sandilar for burial in his family crypt. Darnec had forced himself to ignore the process but, now that it was over, the pale fabric of the shroud drew his gaze no matter how often he told himself to ignore it. He could almost imagine the duke breathing beneath it, slow and accusatory, ready to take revenge.
He turned back to the physician, suddenly not wanting to be left alone with the corpse. “Sir Brannon hasn't been in to check on me, has he? Is he around?”
Master Jordell shook his head. “No, he and the king both left as soon as the fight was over.”
“Oh. I thought they might have wanted to, you know . . .” Darnec shrugged and deepened his voice to something more like Brannon's gruff tones. “‘Thank you, Darnec, for risking your life to fight a traitor and save the kingdom from mischief. You're our hero.’” He let his voice return to normal and lay back on the bench, cradling his head on his uninjured arm and stared at the ceiling. “No problem, Sir Brannon, anything for you and the king.”
The old physician's craggy face appeared above him, his frown deepening the lines in his skin even further. “Are you really that stupid?”
“What do you mean?”
Master Jordell shook his head and sighed. “You just killed their oldest friend, boy. And you expect to get thanks for that?”
Darnec sat up. “But they wanted me to.”
Jordell's palm cuffed the back of his head. “They needed you to. Nobody wanted what happened today. You did your duty and that was noted but don't expect thanks for taking a life. Certainly not from the Bloodhawk. Think it through before you open your mouth.” He picked up his bag and moved toward the door. “Now go home and rest. And don't forget I want to see that wound again by the end of the week.”
“Yes sir.”
The door shut behind the physician and Darnec stood up. He moved his arm gingerly, testing the bandage and the stitches. It stung, but not too bad. Perhaps the old man knew what he was about, after all. He carefully pulled the coat of the King's Guard around his shoulders. He wore it even when he wasn't on duty these days. It was nice to have a symbol of honor after so long without any. Brannon might not have come to give him a mentor's pat on the back after today's combat, but Darnec knew he was much better off now than when he'd last been in the arena and he had the Bloodhawk to thank for that.
