The Crown and the Sword

CHAPTER TEN

The lord marshal left Selinda in her chambers. The princess was still distraught but at the same time overwhelmed by her new pledge of troth. She had wavered between weeping and pleading, and he had been forced to physically pry her arms from around him.

Gently but firmly Jaymes told her it was time for him to go and defend himself. He asked her not to come and witness the duel, but had little doubt she would do as she pleased.

The contest was to take place in an area called the Dog Run, which was actually a small courtyard to the rear of du Chagne’s massive palace. Jaymes was making his way there, alone through the empty hall, when he spied a white shape among the shadows. Coryn stepped into view from between two pillars where she had been waiting for him.

“Hello,” he said lightly. “I imagine you’ve heard the news. Came for the spectacle, did you?”

“I came to warn you,” she snapped. “Du Chagne is up to something. This whole match smells of his doing, and he’s not enough of a gambler to take chances with such a game. They must have something rigged, some kind of treachery.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he agreed. After a pause, he added, “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll be careful. I had hoped… that is, would you second for me?”

She nodded curtly. “Yes, Kingfisher Moorvan and I have agreed to keep an eye on things. The Clerist inquisitor will be the judge of the event. He’s du Chagne’s man, but I think he still has a conscience-unlike some of the rest of that circle.”

“If you say so,” Jaymes replied. He did not appear overly concerned about the matter.

“Listen. You have to understand, I won’t be able to do anything to help you,” Coryn warned.

“I realize that. Don’t worry; I can take care of myself.”

“Can you? It was only two nights ago that the Kingfisher distracted you with a spell, so much so that you completely forgot your purpose in coming here. If it wasn’t for that misadventure, we wouldn’t be in this mess today.”

He glared at her. “Well, I will count on you to guard against any further magical treachery. As for Frankish’s steel, I shall meet that threat on my own terms.”

She drew a harsh breath. “What were you thinking, letting him goad you into a match like this? He’s the most accomplished swordsman in Palanthas; he kills for sport. While you-you have far more important things to do, like winning the war against Ankhar! Instead, you’re risking your life in a duel over a woman!”

“Believe it or not, winning this duel might aid the war campaign more than anything else I could be doing right now. This duel is not over just any woman, remember. And I told you: I didn’t instigate the challenge, Frankish did. But now that I have agreed to a duel, I think I can turn the situation to my advantage.”

“How?” she demanded.

“You’ll have to wait, but you’ll see, just like everyone else. Meanwhile, you might be interested to know that your potion seems to be very effective.”

“Dammit, why do you have to be so difficult?” she cried, tension cracking her voice. Angrily she clamped her mouth shut, her lips set in a thin line. “Just try not to get your head lopped off!” she snapped before turning and stalking away into the darkness.

“I will try,” he said, too quietly for her to hear, before he followed her to the gate leading to the Dog Run.

Coryn and the Kingfisher were standing side by side at the opposite end of the Dog Run. The two mages wore solemn expressions. The lord regent, together with his aide-de-camp, the Baron Dekage, stood to their left. The Clerist Knight Inquisitor Frost stood in the traditional judge’s position, halfway around the right side of the oval floor.

The courtyard was relatively small, with high walls on all sides enclosing the interior. Jaymes came through the barred door at one end to see that someone had installed burning torches in sconces around the wall. The run was lit up almost as bright as day. In a way that was a disadvantage to the lord marshal, who had keen night vision.

Just then Selinda arrived, accompanied only by her servant, Marie. Both young women were breathless and pale, with Marie trailing the agitated princess.

“My dear! This is no place for you!” the lord regent insisted as soon as his daughter came through the gate.

“Actually, Father, this is the only place for me!” she replied coldly.

“But, my princess-” Lord Frankish began to object.

She whirled upon him, eyes flashing, spitting her words. “How dare you presume to speak to me… or for me! If you think you will win my heart by slaying anyone who stands in your path, you know me very poorly, my lord. It will be my pleasure to watch your blood spill onto the ground!”

Frankish drew himself up stiffly. “If you have so little care for your honor, at least take heart from the fact there are others who will watch out for you. Whatever bewitchment this wretch has-”

“You’re a bully and killer!” she interrupted. “And I care not a whit for your protection.”

With a visible effort she composed herself, stood tall-and she was an unusually tall woman-and glared first at Lord Frankish then at her father. Her next words were spoken carefully and with quiet dignity.

“You both should know that I have pledged my hand to Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham this night. There is nothing either of you can do to change that fact. So put aside your foolish notions of honor, all of you. Leave here and go to bed. This is a fight over nothing.”

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 maneuvers 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.