S. Stirling - A Meeting At Corvallis

"Lord Protector Arminger," he said crisply.

"My lord Eric Larsson," Arminger replied. Most of our nobility acknowledge A-listers as our equivalents, he thought. Can't hurt to do the same. It'll all be very theoretical soon, anyway. "Has your master reconsidered my offer? What message does the Bear Lord send to me?"

As he spoke, he suddenly wished that he hadn't let his taste for archaic vocabulary betray him. He might have known that a Larsson would have a solid education in the classics. Eric's face showed a little of his sudden glee, but that was to be expected in someone still young.

"What does the Bear Lord send unto you? Defiance," the emissary said. "Add unto this, contempt, and slight regard."

And he hurled the gauntlet down on the table. Unit markers went flying from the surface of the map, some of them striking Arminger in the face. Almost, for an instant, he did what his wife was still silently willing he should. When he spoke he slowly stood upright, forcing his teeth apart.

"Be glad you're an ambassador, boy. I can't kill you now. When the battle comes, there will be no such restrictions."

Larsson smiled. "You refuse the challenge?"

"Sovereigns don't accept challenges from their inferiors. Tell your master that."

One yellow eyebrow went up. "Oh, my lord Protector, it isn't my challenge." He raised his voice: "The Bear Lord calls the Lord Protector to account for his many crimes, and will meet him between the armies tomorrow in single combat, with any weapons the Lord Protector may choose, to the death."

Norman Arminger felt his face go gray. It wasn't fear-fear of ordinary physical danger was not one of his weaknesses. It was the realization:

I can't say no, he thought, thinking of the young lion eyes on him. Not here, not now, not with all my men assembled and with the uprising back home. They'll accept anything but what looks like cowardice. The old gangers as much so as the new crop of knights, for only slightly different reasons.

"I told you to kill him!" Sandra whispered fiercely.

"And I will," he answered. "After I kill the Bear Lord, tomorrow."

He turned his head, conscious of her slight moan, and met Eric Larsson eye-to-eye. "Tell the Bear Lord that the Lord Protector of the Association will meet him tomorrow with destrier and armor, shield and sword and sharpened lance, at noon between the armies. This fight to settle our differences as men, and not to bind our armies; and there will be a general truce until sunset."

"Agreed, my lord," Eric Larsson said.

He bowed again, made a precise turn and walked out to his horse. It had waited with perfect discipline until he returned; it swiveled in the instant his foot found the stirrup, and he rode it into a canter as it left.

Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon

September 4th, 2008/Change Year 10

Signe handed him his lance. Mike Havel looked down at the fierce, beautiful face with its little nick at the bridge of the nose and smiled.

"Thanks," he said. "See you in about half an hour, I think."

"Kill him, Mike," she said.

"Hey, that's the general idea, alskling," he said, his smile growing into a grin. "We'll be out of this stinking armor and back in bed at Larsdalen inside a week."

"That's a date, buster!" she said.

The other leaders were there, but they left the last words to his wife; he nodded to them and set the lance-butt on the toe of his right boot. There was no point in using the scabbard behind his right hip; he wouldn't be taking his bow to this encounter.

Yeah, gotta beat him on his own terms for this to work properly.

It was almost precisely noon, the sun overhead to minimize advantage to either side. And it was a hot day for the Willamette country, in the eighties; clouds were piling up on the western horizon over the distant Coast Range, like taller mountains of cream and hot gold to match the blue-white Cascades. Soon the fall rains would start, softening the land for the fall plowing and planting; right now the last sun of summer baked pungencies out of earth and horse and man. Dust puffed up under hooves.

A low rumbling spread across the front of the allied army; everyone who didn't have inescapable duties was out today, drawn by dread and fear and hope, protected by the truce. It built to a roar as he cantered Gustav out into the open space. The Protectorate's force was there as well, a dark line across the stubblefields a mile north. Their cheering was more regular, and as their lord emerged from under the black-and-scarlet banner they started beating their spears or the flats of their swords against their shields, a rumbling like ten thousand drums, stuttering through air and ground, bone and flesh. From the south the roaring of Havel's supporters grew louder too, not wanting to be outdone. He surprised himself with a chuckle as he recognized the OSU fight song in that chorus of screeches and bellows and chantings of his name.

The two men cantered forward, meeting midway between the armies; the roar was still loud, but muffled to the point where ordinary voices could be heard. Arminger's coif didn't cover his mouth; not surprising, since he'd be planning on giving orders in any fight he was in; the Lidless Eye was on his shield, and on the forehead of his conical black-enameled helmet, making him look like a caricature of evil. They each leaned their lances forward and tapped the shafts together ceremoniously before raising them upright again.

"Ten years since we last met, isn't it, Havel?" Arminger said.

Mike grinned. "Ten years since I suckered you the last time, Norman," he said.

There were lines graven on the angular face across from him that hadn't been there back when he'd come through Portland so soon after the Change; partly just age, but partly stress too, he judged. It couldn't be easy staying on top of that snake pit he'd built.

I'm going to kill you, he thought coldly. Not least because you're still playing a game, college boy. I'm a working man, and fighting's just another job I do to keep my family fed and safe.

There were none of the melodramatic threats or boasts he half expected, the I'm-going-rape-your-wife-and-feed-your-children-to-dogs; the man had learned control since they last talked. Though of course he'd be quite capable of doing anything of that sort.

The Lord Protector simply nodded. "One of us, I think, will not leave this field alive," he said, and turned his horse.

They continued until they were about a thousand yards apart. This was no tournament with rebated lances, or even a outrance, and there were no heralds or trumpeters. Each horse reared and came down moving fast, building speed in lines of dust across the reaped grain stalks. The black-armored figure grew with shocking speed, only a pair of eyes visible on either side of his helm's nasal bar, and the shield expertly sloped. Arminger wasn't a kid jagging out on testosterone and dreams of glory; he was a man not long past his physical peak, trained to a hair and immensely experienced.

So, gotta think outside the box, went through him as the lancehead came for his life.

Then: Crack!

He caught the lance on his shield, just. The force of it punched him back and sideways, out of the saddle. The ground came up and hit him with stunning force, and he tasted blood. Doggedly he shook off pain and struggled to his feet, spitting to clear his mouth. A half-dozen yards away Norman Arminger struggled to free himself from the wreck as his horse sank and threshed and screamed, with three feet of lance driven into its flank; the broken stub protruded just in front of Arminger's left knee. Havel took a step forward, and hissed at the sensation in his left leg and hip; it was like nerves being stretched out naked and scraped with serrated knives. He made himself move nonetheless, the backsword coming out as he advanced, the targe on his left forearm.