David Farland - Brotherhood of the Wolf

Again they lunged at one another. The High Marshal aimed a vicious swing with the axe. Borenson tried to parry, but the axe cleaved through his shield’s steel exterior and shattered the wooden braces underneath. The shield came apart on Borenson’s arm while he swung his morningstar, aiming a blow at the High Marshal’s face. The spikes on the steel balls grazed the High Marshal’s chin, but the main force of the blow was deflected by his sturdy helm.

With his defenses crumbling, Borenson leapt in the air and swung down full force, seeking a quick strike.

Once again the men’s actions became a blur. Myrrima sensed more than saw the High Marshal duck away from the attack and bring his ante up, entangling the weighted balls of the morningstar.

Then fists flew, men groaned. A kick from Skalbairn swept Borenson’s legs from beneath him.

Borenson went down, tried to climb back up, and Skalbairn drove a mailed fist into Borenson’s face.

Stunned, Borenson slumped to his back, momentarily unconscious.

Skalbairn drew his long dagger and leapt to the ground, pressing its blade under Borenson’s chin. Myrrima tried to climb over the railing, for she feared that the High Marshal would shove the dagger into her husband’s throat, but Sister Connal caught her by the shoulder and shouted in Myrrima’s ear, “Stay out of it!”

“Do you yield? Do you yield?” the big man Skalbairn began roaring.

From the crowd came scattered applause for the High Marshal, along with curses. “Kill him!”

“Kill the whoreson blackguard!”

“Kingslayer!”

Such curses were normally only reserved for the worst cowards or oafs. Myrrima was dismayed by the vehemence of the insults. Her husband had killed a reaver mage and brought its head to the gates of the city. He should have been hailed as a hero.

But the people here would not forget that her husband had slain King Sylvarresta. Myrrima began to realize that they would never forget her husband’s deed, nor forgive it.

“Mystarrian whore,” Sir Hoswell had called her. “Kingslayer,” the crowd shouted at her husband. She glanced at those nearby, saw their faces flushed with excitement. Nothing would give them more joy than to see her husband killed.

She had hardly noticed the minstrels playing all during the charge, but now the drum rolled and a single horn blared the high, curdling call for the death stroke.

It sickened Myrrima, sickened her to the core. He’s better than any one of you, she wanted to shout. He’s better than the whole lot of you put together!

The crowd hushed to hear Borenson’s response above the drum roll.

And there, lying in the muddy field while an angry giant held a dagger to his jugular vein, Borenson responded by laughing uproariously, laughing so heartily that Myrrima wondered if the fight had been staged for the benefit of the petty lords.

Perhaps this was not a death match after all, Myrrima hoped. Two skilled warriors, feigning a deadly grudge just to thrill a crowd. It had been done before.

“Do you yield?” High Marshal Skalbairn roared again, and the tone of his voice made it clear that this was no jest.

“I yield,” Sir Borenson laughed, and he made as if to get up. “By the Powers, I’ve never met a man who could handle me like that.”

But the High Marshal snarled viciously and shoved Sir Borenson’s head down, poking the long knife harder against his throat.

Under the rules of formal combat, Sir Borenson put his life into the High Marshal’s hands by yielding. His life belonged to Skalbairn now, and he could be slain or allowed to live, according to Skalbairn’s whim.

But the formal code of chivalry observed on the battlefield was seldom taken seriously here in the arena. A defeated knight might be asked to pay a ransom of arms or armor, sometimes even money or land. But he was never slain outright.

“You’ll not get off so handily!” the High Marshal bellowed like a bull. “Your life is mine, you scurvy bastard, and I intend to take it!”

Sir Borenson lay back, astonished by the High Marshal’s battle fury.

Another man might have fought on, hoping to save himself. But true to his word, Borenson lay back and taunted his opponent. “I said ‘I yield. If it’s my life you want, take it!”

The High Marshal smiled savagely, and the giant hunched over him, as if eager to dig the knife blade into Borenson’s throat.

“First, a question,” the High Marshal demanded, “and you must answer honestly, or it’s your life.”

Sir Borenson nodded, his pale blue eyes going hard as stone.

“Tell me,” the High Marshal bellowed, “is Gaborn Val Orden truly the Earth King?”

Now Myrrima understood that the High Marshal did not want her husband’s life, only information. And he’d wanted that information so badly, he’d been willing to risk his own life for it.

A knight who yielded on the battlefield was bound by honor to speak truly. Borenson would answer truly now, so long as his answer did not betray his lord.

The High Marshal had shouted so that the entire field hushed to hear the answer. Speaking in a voice that brooked no argument, Borenson said, “He is truly the Earth King.”

“I wonder...” the High Marshal said. “In South Crowthen I heard strange rumors. It’s said that in the House of Understanding, your king studied in the Room of Faces and in the Room of the Heart he studied mimicry and motives in a place where a dishonest man might better learn to deceive. And then when he announced himself to be Earth King, on that very day, his first act was to perform an elaborate ruse to drive Raj Ahten from his lands! Some think it an odd coincidence that Young Orden happens to become the Earth King just when Heredon needs him most. It seems a too convenient tale, one to rouse a peasant’s hopes. So I ask you once again, is he truly the Earth King—or is he a fakir?”

“On my honor and my life, he is the Earth King.”

“Some call him a cur, without natural affection,” the High Marshal growled. “Some wonder why he fled Longmot, leaving his men and his father to die at the hand of Raj Ahten. Surely if he is the Earth King, he could have withstood even Raj Ahten. But you’ve known the boy for ages raised him from a pup. What say you?”

Borenson’s voice shook with rage. “Kill me now, you lousy knave, for I’ll not listen to poisonous lies spread by that fool King Anders!”

There was a whispered hush, and many in the crowd glanced to the far end of the field from whence Sir Skalbairn had ridden. There at the gate stood a tall man in a fine robe. He had wispy blond hair, a hatchet face, and a grim demeanor. He looked to be thirty, but if he had endowments of metabolism, he might have been far younger than that. Myrrima had not seen him before, would not have noticed him in a crowd, but now people whispered, “Prince Celinor.”

“Anders’s son.”

The giant smiled grimly and looked up at Prince Celinor as if seeking his approval. The Prince nodded, he appeared satisfied.

So, Myrrima realized. King Anders’s boy was behind all of this. But did he demand to know whether Gaborn was the Earth King because he sought confirmation, or did he do so because he wanted to plant doubts in the minds of the peasants? If it was for the latter reason, he could not have chosen a better venue for this spectacle than here among the petty lords.

High Marshal Skalbairn sheathed his knife, then offered Sir Borenson his hand. He said, “Arise, then, Sir Borenson. I would see this boy king myself.”

In moments, the arena filled with young boys and minor nobles who rushed up to see the High Marshal, the man who had bested Sir Borenson. Some went to retrieve his lance, others to bring him his horse.

Borenson got up shakily, and no one came to offer him comfort or congratulate him on a good fight. Instead, he went to his cracked lance and knelt to untie Myrrima’s red scarf from it, the sign of her favor.