R. Salvatore - The Dame

“Who are you?” Rubert called, his hand going to his finely crafted sword.

The imposter strode calmly toward Rubert. He carried no weapon that Rubert could see, and he was not a large man, certainly not near to Rubert’s two-hundred-fifty-pound muscular frame.

“Far enough!” Rubert warned, drawing forth his sword, its dull metal gleaming in the moonlight.

The stranger continued toward him.

“You have been warned!” said Rubert. Heart pounding, he retracted his arm and thrust his blade at the man’s chest.

But the man was no longer standing before him, having somehow moved enough to the side so that the blade slipped harmlessly past. Rubert felt a slight thump against his throat. He fell back, slashing his sword at the stranger, who by then had retreated safely out of reach.

“What are you about?” Rubert said, or started to say, or tried futilely to say, for no sound moved past his lips, though he did hear a wheeze a hand’s width below them. He brought his free hand up to his throat and moved it before him into the moonlight, feeling the warmth of his own blood on his fingers. He started to protest, to ask the man another question, but again nothing came forth but a wheeze.

Another form scrambled over the wall behind his attacker, then more behind him. The original assailant grinned at Rubert and calmly walked by. Rubert meant to strike at him with his sword. He really did, except that his arm wouldn’t heed his command to lift the weapon; indeed, he heard the sword, as if very distantly, clang against the tower’s stone roof.

The stranger walked past, along with his companions. Rubert stood there, staring ahead, only vaguely aware that he was perched on the precipice of death’s dark pit and falling forward without reprieve.

Only vaguely did Rubert feel his nose and cheekbone shatter against the hard and cold stone of the tower roof. Only vaguely did he hear the shuffle of light footfalls go past him. He didn’t think of Laird Delaval, the would-be King of Honce, then. He didn’t think of anything at all, just the inviting, irresistible blackness.

Laird Delaval was not a young man, and he surely felt every day of his nearly sixty years that evening. Winter was coming on in full force, with frost every morning and several snow flurries already. Delaval wasn’t looking forward to it. He had hurt his knee in battle three decades earlier, thrown from his horse when some impudent peasant had stabbed his mount in the flank. Though the laird’s wounds had healed-he was back to fighting form within a few weeks-the knee used every day of inclement weather, whether rain or the constant ache in the cold winters, to remind him of that long-ago fall.

“If my nephew can be rid of that troublesome Ethelbert in the coming battle, I just might winter in Ethelbert dos Entel this year and every year thereafter,” Delaval said to Genoffrey and Tademist, his personal attendants and generals. Genoffrey had been with him since the early days, before Delaval had even been named successor to his father, the laird. A large man, his muscles not slackened in the least by the passage of the decades, Genoffrey wielded a claymore of extraordinary weight. More than once had he taken down heavy warhorses on the field of battle with a powerful swipe, and he had one time slain three men with a single swing, a feat that was still much discussed across the holdings of western and central Honce. Tademist, half the age of Delaval and twenty years Genoffrey’s junior, had only recently joined the inner circle. Tall and lanky, the young warrior had not yet thickened with age. Where Genoffrey won with sheer power, Tademist was more of a finesse fighter, wielding a short sword and a long dirk, a rare two-handed fighting style, with cunning and unmatched speed.

The two men glanced at each other with obvious skepticism.

“I know, I know!” Laird Delaval said with a wave of his hand and a snicker. “Prince Yeslnik is not known for his martial prowess.”

“But he has Bannagran, the Bear of Honce, with him, my king,” said Tademist, who, along with Genoffrey and all the others of Delaval’s inner circle, had started referring to Delaval by the title all in Castle Delaval considered inevitable.

“You know this one?” Delaval asked.

“I know that his reputation is well earned, by every account,” Tademist replied, and Genoffrey nodded. “As is his title. They call him the Bear of Honce because of his great strength and size, and when he enters the field, the enemies flee.”

“I have seen him in battle,” the elder guard said. “Both when he was beside Pryd’s son, Prydae, those many years ago, and in our most recent fighting south of Pryd Holding. If anything, his prowess in battle and in commanding his forces is greater than the whispered huzzahs. The Bear of Honce, indeed, in strength and sheer power, but he is more the fox in cleverness. Prince Yeslnik is well-served by that one and will win every day if he heeds the instincts of Bannagran of Pryd.”

“That is good to know,” Laird Delaval said, nodding. He started for his armoire, unbuckling his sword belt as he went. He knew that Genoffrey and Tademist were glancing at each other again behind his back, both of them concerned by his pained hobble. “I plan to live a hundred years, my friends.”

“You will, my king, of course!” said Tademist.

Delaval laughed. “But these are dangerous times, and I fear that I’ve abused my body over the decades. Too many battles, too many hunts, too many women, and too much strong drink!”

Tademist started to protest, but Genoffrey cut him short. “I hear no regret in your voice,” he said slyly.

Laird Delaval laughed again more heartily. “You were there for much of it,” he replied, turning to face his oldest friend. “Do you believe that I should hold regrets?”

“Ah, but if our lives are twenty years shorter for the games of it all, then we’d have lived more than any man deserves!”

Tademist looked at his companion with horror that he would talk to the king so casually, and then both Delaval and Genoffrey laughed.

“You’ve been here for more than two years, young swordsman,” Genoffrey said to Tademist.

“Do you not yet understand?” asked Delaval.

“Understand what, my king?” the poor young man stammered.

“That when it is just we three, you need not call me that,” Delaval replied with obvious exasperation.

“But-”

“Oh, shut up,” said Delaval, laughing once more, or still, actually. “All the formalities are for those out there,” he explained, waving his hand at the closed door of his private chambers.

“And out there, never forget your place or his title,” Genoffrey added.

“But in here we are friends,” said Delaval. “Genoffrey was by my side when he was just a boy, a groom. As he grew, he trained with me and then became my constant companion in the wars. We saw men die, and often.”

“Too often,” Genoffrey grumbled.

“Aye, and we’ve killed men, and goblins and powries, side by side,” Delaval continued.

“I am blessed to be here, my king-” Tademist said with a bow.

“Nonsense!” said Delaval. “You earned it with your skills! You remind me of a young Genoffrey, and I assure you, that is no small compliment.”

Tademist, who considered himself fortunate in his daily sparring with Genoffrey on those rare occasions he even earned draw, didn’t doubt that for a moment. He looked to his companion and smiled.

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.

“Speak!” Delaval called.

“Your hot towels, my king,” came the familiar woman’s voice of Maddie Macabee, another of Delaval’s personal attendants.

“Hot towels for aching bones,” Delaval said with a sigh, and he nodded Tademist toward the door.