Robert Keller - The Heart of Shadows

"It was a good fight, Thrake Wolfaxe," Ulmason said. "You have proven yourself to be a worthy opponent. Do you yield?"

Thrake hesitated, then said, "Yes, I yield." There was no shame in the loser of a duel yielding if his opponent allowed it. It simply meant that although he'd lost, his life would be spared.

Ulmason placed his horned helm back on his head. Then he raised his axe in triumph. "I am the winner! I have defeated one of the strongest Knights of Dremlock! This is a great day for the Blood Legion!" Then he glanced down at Thrake. "If we fight again, it will be to the death."

Taris' face bore a bitter expression. "Yes, Ulmason Deathhand has won the duel. I declare it a fair victory. Do you agree, Timlin?"

"It was a fair victory," said Timlin.

"Having lost the duel," Taris went on, "we shall remain camped here for three days." He motioned to an Orange Squire-a scribe. "Let this be entered into the official records of Dremlock."

Ulmason swung onto his horse, as the Divine Knights and Squires looked on in miserable silence. "Dremlock's days are coming to an end!" the Dark Knight bellowed. "We have now gained a huge advantage, and you will soon understand what I mean. Sit here for three long days and contemplate that!" Ulmason threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, what a fine morning this has been!"

Timlin grinned. "Enjoy your rest, oh mighty Taris. And you too, Lannon. Soon you'll be resting for eternity."

With that, the two happy warriors rode from the camp.

Later that night, as the Squires sat warming themselves in their tent, Thrake shuffled in carrying a flask and sat down. His face was gloomy, and again he smelled of wine. He sighed and shook his head. The Squires gazed at him in pity, knowing the pain he was undoubtedly feeling over losing the duel.

"How are you, Master?" asked Jerret, looking sad.

"Terrible, of course," Thrake muttered. "I still can't believe I lost. I'm certain I could have defeated him, if only I wouldn't have slipped."

"Things like that happen," said Lothrin, with a shrug. The lean Squire was always busy with something. This time, he sat polishing his bow. "At least you lived to fight again. What more could a warrior ask for?"

"I almost wish he had finished me off," said Thrake, taking a huge drink of wine afterwards. Some of it ran down his beard and he wiped it on his sleeve. "I'm ashamed to call myself a Divine Knight. I came here, risking Shennen's wrath, to apologize to you Squires for failing you."

"An apology is not necessary," said Jerret. "You fought well and could easily have won. As Lothrin said, anyone can lose a fight if they have bad luck."

"I didn't say anything about luck," said Lothrin.

"Yet a slip in the snow is bad luck," said Jerret. "Right? Or are you trying to say it was Master Thrake's destiny to lose?"

Lothrin didn't reply.

"You're a great warrior, Master Thrake," said Prince Vannas. "You fought with honor and did your best. Anyone can lose their footing. As far as I'm concerned, you were the better fighter today."

"I'm just glad you're alive," said Lannon. "For a moment, I thought I was going to have to stand there and watch you die."

"I was ready to die," said Thrake. "Now, I have to find a way to live with my shame." He guzzled some more wine.

"Perhaps you should have some water instead," said Lannon, though he knew it was a bold statement to make to a Knight. He thought of Dremlock's beloved Lord Knight, Cordus Landsaver, who'd also tried and failed to drink away his troubles. Lannon decided he would not follow that path regardless of the sorrows he experienced, for no good ever seemed to come of it.

"You speak true, Squire," said Thrake. "But right now, I just want to drink my wine until I sleep…and forget about everything."

"You'll be fine, Master," said Jerret. "We'll meet that Knight again on the battlefield, and next time, you'll finish him off. I'm certain of it."

"I hope you're right, Jerret," said Thrake, though he looked doubtful. "I would welcome a chance to redeem myself."

Shennen poked his head into the tent, glaring with disapproval. He sighed. "So you're in here again, Thrake, in spite of my orders. I expected as much. You have no respect for those who outrank you. No doubt indulging in spirits when you shouldn't be and whining about your defeat."

"I'm not whining," said Thrake, "though the defeat does sting."

"Thrake fought well," Jerret protested.

"Silence, arrogant Squire!" Shennen commanded. "Or you will feel the flat of my blade against your backside! The days of Squires with bold tongues are over. Thrake does not need you to defend him."

Jerret didn't answer, but his eyes smoldered with anger.

The other Squires looked on with tense faces.

"Shennen speaks true," said Thrake, bowing his head. "I'm not worthy of being defended. I failed, and that's all there is to it."

"And failed miserably," said Shennen. "As it always will be."

Thrake's face darkened. "As it always will be? So you say, Birlote. But I still have my life. This body is still strong and capable."

"Yes, for the moment," Shennen whispered. He winked at Lannon. His devilish, bone-white face bore a wicked grin.

Lannon summoned the Eye of Divinity. Lannon feared Shennen, but he was also a well-trained Squire and would kill to save himself if it came to that. Garrin Daggerblood had learned that truth the hard way.

"Is something wrong, Master Shennen?" asked Lannon, though it was clear that something was very wrong.

"Nothing that won't soon be taken care of," Shennen replied, his gaze focused on Thrake.

Thrake's eyes widened and his hand tightened around his axe handle. "What are you saying? Is that another…" His words trailed off, for Shennen's ghastly face had already withdrawn from the tent.

Thrake waited in silence for a moment, then rose and left.

Lannon lay awake in the tent after everyone else had gone to sleep. He kept the lantern lit, fearing the dark. Shennen's pale, grinning face kept flashing through his mind. He wondered how the other Squires could sleep. The four boys lay side by side and the two girls lay across from them. At one point, Lannon sent the Eye of Divinity outside the tent to investigate and found to his relief that Thrake and three other Knights were standing guard. However, he had no idea when Thrake's shift would end and Shennen would take over.

But as the hours slipped past and Lannon checked again to find that the same four Knights were still standing guard, he began to grow drowsy. He found himself slipping in and out of sleep.

Suddenly, Lannon awoke to discover the interior of the tent in total darkness. Panic surged through him and he tried to summon the Eye, but something was choking off his power. He tried to move but found himself paralyzed. He couldn't even cry out for help.

And then a dagger erupted into purple flames, to reveal the bearded face of Thrake Wolfaxe, who stood over Lannon. Relief flooded through the Squire, for Lannon was certain Thrake was in the process of rescuing him from some servant of the Deep Shadow. But a cold shock tore through Lannon as he looked into Thrake's eyes. The Red Knight's face was twisted with malice, his eyes bearing a purple hue. His forehead and cheeks seemed scaly.

"Relax, Lannon," Thrake whispered. "No one knows I'm here. Three Knights lie sleeping outside, and the other Squires are hopelessly asleep in here. They won't awaken to save you. How do I know? Because I made them sleep." He raised his free hand, which had dark claws protruding from the fingertips, and a purple fog surrounded it. "I am the Dragon Knight, Lannon."

Lannon felt anger at himself along with his panic. He couldn't believe that once again he was lying helpless in a tent, about to be assassinated. He also felt deep sorrow and could barely believe Thrake was a puppet of Tharnin.