by Doug Niles
Du Chagne’s face paled, while Frankish displayed an opposite effect: a flush of bright crimson slowly crept upward from his neck, through his cheeks, and over his forehead. His eyes were furiously fixed upon Jaymes.
“I don’t know what treachery, what villainy, you have managed to work,” Frankish addressed Jaymes. “But for those very words uttered by this gracious lady, for that alone, you must die and face an eternity of torment in the Abyss.”
Jaymes stoically ignored the taunt, glancing at Coryn, who was glaring at him with a fury that matched Frankish’s. He looked away, rather than meet her jealous gaze.
The Princess Selinda du Chagne stalked away from her father and went to stand at the opposite side of the courtyard. Selinda stared at the lord marshal with almost hypnotic intensity, her hands pressed to her mouth as the torches sputtered and smoked over her head. Her eyes were shining and her skin was taut; she looked as proud as she was terrified.
Lord Frankish came over to stand beside Jaymes, though neither man further acknowledged the other. The lord inquisitor came forward and placed a small table before the pair of combatants, upon which he set a long case. Frost opened the case to reveal two long, slender rapiers of impeccable craftsmanship, made of fine dwarven steel, with lethal, needle-sharp tips.
“Lord Frankish has issued the challenge. It falls to the lord marshal to select his weapon first,” the Clerist declared.
Jaymes merely chose the closer of the two swords, swishing it through the air a few times, admiring its balance. He took the tip in his left hand and bent the blade, impressed by the supple strength of the steel.
“This will do,” he said as Frankish grabbed the other blade and pronounced himself similarly satisfied. Immediately the table and the empty box were whisked away. The judge returned and swiftly patted down the two warriors, checking to see that neither concealed any extra weapons. The lord inquisitor declared the contestants suitably armed.
Next the two wizards circled the Dog Run slowly, methodically. Each cast a magic detection spell upon the two duelists, ensuring that neither wore a ring or other magical device. They examined the walls, the gates, and even the torch sconces for anything untoward. Sir Moorvan and finally Lady Coryn pronounced the arena free of magic.
“Take your positions,” Lord Inquisitor Frost ordered, guiding Jaymes to the left and Frankish to the right. “Ten steps away.”
The Clerist knight stood at attention, clearing his throat. Lord Frankish looked at Jaymes with undiluted hatred, while Lord Regent du Chagne’s face was a mask.
Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham bristled at all the rigmarole. It was time to get on with it, by all the gods!
Selinda blew him a kiss, even as her eyes were bright with tears.
And Coryn the White still glared at him through slit eyes.
“The Solamnic duel is a challenge of great import and tradition,” the inquisitor intoned, speaking to both combatants directly. “From the times of antiquity, the knighthood has placed full faith in the tenets of the Oath and Measure, and nowhere else are those tenets so clearly on display.”
That was patently illogical, thought Jaymes, but he betrayed no emotion as the Clerist lord continued to speak.
“This is a test of arms … and of skill … and of courage. Know that there is no shame in defeat, should a knight give his best effort in the attempt. At any time either combatant may surrender to spare bloodshed—simply by throwing down his weapon and calling for mercy. The foe is honor bound to obey such a plea and will be regarded as the winner of the duel, though the loser remains alive.”
“A waste of words, priest,” Frankish sneered. “This cur will never submit, and I will have no need for mercy.”
“Nevertheless,” Frost admonished sternly. “The disengagement is ingrained in the tradition of the duel. It will be observed.”
The two duelists eyed each other carefully. Jaymes fingered his blade. Though the rapier was not his weapon of choice, he was skilled in its use and confident in his speed and quickness.
He was not afraid.
“Now—let the combat commence,” the inquisitor pronounced after a long pause.
Lord Frankish approached swiftly, his weapon poised, feet gliding across the dusty floor of the Dog Run. Jaymes shifted slightly, anticipating his opponent’s first strike, and made ready to sidestep. But Frankish launched a whirling attack, and the lord’s sword moved faster than Jaymes’s eyes could follow. He raised his own weapon in the planned parry, but felt a slash on his arm before his blade could make its block.
The lord marshal retreated a few steps, and Frankish came on furiously and aggressively. Jaymes suddenly realized his opponent was expert, and he was fighting for his life. He slid to the side with his enemy charging undaunted. When he tried to fake to the left, Frankish drove at him from the right, lunging forward and plucking at Jaymes’s hip, carving a nasty scrape before the lord marshal could whirl away.
As nimble as he was, his enemy was impressive in his attack. When Jaymes blocked high, his foe’s blade came in low. When he retreated, Frankish advanced. And when the lord marshal offered a modest counterattack, he was belabored by such a succession of blows he could only fall back, almost stumbling as he hastily backed away.
His enemy’s blade slid under his defenses with terrifying speed. Jaymes fell to the rear again, barely knocking the blows away, but before he could catch his balance, another slash came in from the right. He twisted to the left, lunging to escape a wickedly fast strike, but could not evade before the blade tore through his sleeve near the wrist.
Across the Dog Run, the Princess Selinda screamed.
Blood coursed over his hand, dripping from his fingers, and the lord marshal fumbled as he retreated. All too soon, he felt the cold stones of the courtyard wall against his back. Frankish’s eyes lit up with a cruel gleam of triumph as he closed in. Jaymes feinted, lunged, and parried, but he felt as if he were anchored in thick mud.
He’s not that good!
Coryn realized almost immediately that, somehow, the Rose Lord had enhanced his abilities—without using a magic device, which she certainly would have detected. Frankish moved in a blur, dancing around the eminently skilled—yet clearly outclassed—lord marshal. Jaymes’s parries looked sluggish; Frankish struck at will.
Again and again Frankish dashed in close to Jaymes, flicking with his rapier—leaving bloody scratches—and dancing away before the lord marshal could respond.
Coryn looked at Sir Moorvan, who was staring at the Rose Lord with undisguised irritation, even animosity. The Kingfisher’s hands twitched at his sides, as if he wished he could reach out and strangle the man. But why should the Kingfisher be upset, the wizard wondered—when Sir Moorvan surely wanted Frankish to win!
And suddenly she understood.
“You cast a spell of haste on him, didn’t you?” she hissed furiously.
He looked at her in astonishment, guilt flitting across his features, and in that instant she knew. “He was supposed to be discreet about it, wasn’t he? But he has failed his subterfuge. He is being too obvious!”
“Don’t be ridic—”
“You will dispel the magic—now!” she insisted angrily. “Or I will cast the same spell for Jaymes—and make a mockery of this whole duel! And then I will reveal your perfidy, and the lord regent’s, making it known to everyone concerned, from Palanthas to the Council of Whitestone and even the Grand Master himself!”
With a pained look, the Kingfisher squirmed in his seat. “But I can’t—”
“Do it—right now!” demanded Coryn.
Grimacing, Moorvan waved his hand at the Rose Lord, dispelling the magic, and almost immediately, the lord marshal scored his first wound of the match.
Jaymes advanced steadily now. He saw the fear growing in his opponent’s widening eyes, the sweat that increasingly sheened his forehead. Now it was the lord marshal’s turn to thrust aggressively. He shuffled his feet forward, thrust again and again, repeating the m
aneuvers with smooth precision. Poised on the balls of his feet, knees bent, balance distributed evenly, Jaymes advanced and drove his opponent back.
Frankish reacted weakly to the increasing tempo of Jaymes’s attacks, blocking and parrying with mounting desperation, with little suggestion of his formerly blinding speed. The lord’s reflexes had slowed considerably, and now his skills were sorely tested. All the while the lord marshal pushed at his opponent mercilessly, steadily backing him across the floor. Frankish’s best efforts could do little except hold him at bay.
When the Rose Lord tried to circle away, Jaymes gracefully cut him off with a slide to the left. When his enemy made a desperate lunge, slashing and swiping almost frantically, Jaymes stood his ground, parrying and blocking. Their blades met with increasing fury, a clash, clash, clash that melded into a steady hiss and clangor.
The lord marshal yielded not an inch, and inevitably, Frankish fell back, sweating heavily and gasping for breath. Again Jaymes took up the advance, making slow, methodical progress across the courtyard, moving no more than eight or ten inches with each gliding step. His enemy continued to retreat, nearly stumbling, until backed up against the wall, directly before Lord Regent du Chagne. Frankish was flailing now, frantically slashing against Jaymes’s blade and leaving himself wide open to thrusts.
Jaymes was toying with Frankish now, and he backed off slightly, glancing at the pale face of Lord Regent du Chagne. Smiling coldly, fixing his eyes again on his opponent’s face, Jaymes swung hard, bashing the other man’s sword to the side.
Suddenly, startling him, Lord Frankish let go of his sword. “Mercy!” he cried, dropping to one knee. “I beg mercy, upon the Oath and the—”
But Jaymes stabbed Frankish before he could finish his plea, driving the tip of his sword through his opponent’s chest and deep into the man’s heart. Even as Frankish died, the lord marshal’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other man, the noble who stared back at him with shock, fear, and fury written plainly across his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear him in time,” Jaymes said, yanking his blade free from the other man’s chest. Frankish slumped to the ground, and the lord marshal tossed the bloody weapon onto his opponent’s corpse.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SECRET COMPOUNDS
Jaymes took his time riding away from Palanthas. For four days he traveled by horseback over the High Clerist’s Pass, along the foothills of the Vingaard range, and up to the thriving village he had founded two years earlier—the place called, simply, the Compound. He had reasons for going there, and he needed time to clear his head.
After the duel, Coryn, naturally, had wanted to teleport him directly back to his army so he could launch a plan to save Solanthus. He had made a reasonable explanation: the bridging equipment for which he had contracted in Palanthas would not reach the army for several weeks, and operations at the front would have to wait until then. He reminded her that the Vingaard was a deep, wide barrier; the river crossing was challenging, and the outcome of the campaign would depend on it. That was the truth.
But another truth he held more privately. As much as Coryn had helped him, he could not allow himself to fall completely under her influence. Though he was saddle sore by the second day of riding, though rain and wind lashed him through the high pass, he relished the discomfort. He would do things in his own time; Coryn be damned.
The parting from Selinda had been an easier test of his will, though it had involved high drama. The princess had wept and pleaded with him, clearly terrified that he would come to harm in warfare—or perhaps, that his desire to marry her would wane with time and distance. He had assured her, quite honestly, that his ardor would remain as passionate as ever, awkwardly disengaging himself from her arms and riding away.
The white gelding he rode previously had been splendid for show, but with a mountain road before him, he had left the animal in Donny’s keeping and purchased a sturdy black mare. She had proven a fast and tireless mount and seemed to share his restlessness as she climbed into the fragrant pine forests of the Vingaard foothills. Jaymes gave the mare her head, and the horse shivered with delight in the cool shade. The air was moist, and the fragrance of evergreens made a rich and soothing perfume. The rider allowed their pace to ease a little as the land rose; his customary urgency was tempered by a rare pleasure in his surroundings. This valley, his destination, might not have been home to him, but it was as close to a home as any place else in the world.
The trail climbed steadily, but the weary horse only picked up speed, as if she sensed the nearness of their destination. She trotted up a series of inclines, following the winding trail beneath the overhanging limbs of the pines, then broke into a trot as the path leveled off and the trees ended abruptly at the mouth of a wide, flat-bottomed valley.
Here the scent of pines was replaced by the acidic stink of smoke and ash. A cloud of smoke hung in the air, like a permanent stratus cloud roofing the valley, enclosing this secret place and shielding it from unwelcome eyes—as if to say “not even the gods may look here!” But to Jaymes Markham, all was as it should be in this place.
The Compound had changed a great deal over the past year. Where once a clearing had formed but a small gap in the vast forest, now the trees had been harvested not only from the valley floor, but also from the slopes of both of the adjacent ridges. The barren ground was brown, streaked with gullies and ravines where erosion had begun. Great piles of logs were stacked to the right and left, the timber drying in the air. Dwarven laborers, well paid and hard working, were busy lashing teams of horses as they hauled skids of logs, bringing more lumber down from the mountains. Others chopped and split the logs or pounded hammers into spikes as they worked at assembling buildings.
Instead of the rudimentary shacks of the original log buildings, there were long, timbered structures containing the factories, as well as a series of barracks where the workers—now numbering in the hundreds—lived and ate. The sounds of industry echoed through the whole valley, from the steady cadence of axes, the hammering of smiths, the roaring of forges, and the cacophony of overseers and foremen shouting their commands.
The arrival of the lone rider attracted notice, and messengers raced to inform their foremen and bring news to the great house in the center of the Compound. But work continued as Jaymes rode into the corral before the largest house in the entire place. It was a great, sprawling manor with two wings and a tall, colonnaded facade. Two young handlers, both human lads, came out of the stable to take charge of his horse, and as he made his way up the steps before the house, a bearded dwarf hastened across the yard, wiping his hands on his apron and meeting the marshal with a scowl just outside the front door.
“I thought you weren’t coming until three days from now!” Dram Feldspar complained crossly. “I have the test planned for then!”
“Events are moving quickly,” the marshal replied. “And I wanted to come up here now; I need to be back with the army within a week, for the next campaign.”
“Well, it’s too bad. And Sally will be disappointed; we were going to butcher a prize hog and spend a day roasting the thing, so we could celebrate in style.”
“Your simple country fare will be fine, I’m sure.” For the first time, the man cracked a thin smile, pointing toward his old friend’s bulging gut. “It looks to me as if you’ve been feasting plenty.”
“Aye,” Dram agreed without a hint of embarrassment. “I’ll tell you, married life agrees with me.”
“You don’t say? Sally hasn’t tossed you out on your ear, then?”
“Not a chance. Though I confess, I get a bit of the longing for the trail, and a warm campfire, now and then. And the sound of a good battle—now, that’s something that would get my blood pounding again.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Jaymes cautioned.
Dram brightened immediately. “Are you here to call me back to arms? My axe is sharp—I keep the blade oiled, you know. I can be ready in—”
“No, no,” the lord marshal countered, raising a hand. “You know better. I need you more here.”
“Bah. I mighta figured. Rubbing shoulders with hill dwarves and gnomes all day!”
“Speaking of hill dwarves, how’s Sally’s father? Still tolerating you?”
The mountain dwarf snorted. “Swig Frostmead would tolerate anyone who brings him as much profit as I do. As to Sally, let’s just say that she and I make each other very happy. As a matter of fact, our family seems to be growing—she’s expecting a little forge-master before the first frost.” He blushed, his pride beaming through the redness that tinged his rugged face.
“Well, congratulations. Even if it turns out to be a forge-mistress.”
“Bite your tongue!” grunted the dwarf. But he halted, and scratched his beard in thought, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. “Do ya think …? Huh! Well, come on in and make yourself comfortable. I sent a message to Swig as soon as the lookouts reported you were coming. No doubt he’ll be over in time for supper.”
“Good.”
“Can you stay for longer than a few days?” He cleared his throat, trying to sound gruff. “I’ve missed … that is, there’s a lot to show you.”
“No, this will have to be a quick visit. The army is concentrating on the west bank of the Vingaard, and I need to meet them in camp as soon as possible. How long will it take to put together the demonstration?”
“Well, I’d prefer more time to prepare, but there’s no real reason why we couldn’t do it first thing in the morning—that is, if you really have to get going.” He looked rather crestfallen, but his expression brightened at the sound of a female voice from the next room.
“Jaymes!” Sally Feldspar came running, or more accurately waddling, into view. The dwarf maid’s rosy cheeks crinkled into a broad smile, and she turned half sideways so that her bulging belly allowed her to clasp the visitor in a powerful hug.
