John Flanagan - The Kings of Clonmel

`How many of you had ever heard of this "Golden God" before this huckster told you about him?' he demanded. There was no answer and he followed up with a roar. 'Well? How many?'

Feet shuffled awkwardly in the crowd. Then he spoke again.

`And how many have heard of the Sunrise Warrior?' This time, there were a few mumbled 'yeses' from the crowd, then the trickle became a torrent. Alseiass was new and unfamiliar. They all knew the legend of the Sunrise Warrior.

Tennyson, lips compressed in an angry line, stepped forward, hands up to silence them.

`Prooff he shouted. 'Let's see proof! Anyone can put on a shirt with a picture of the sun on it and claim to be this mythical warrior! We want proof!'

A few voices agreed, then more and more. A mob was a fickle animal, Will thought. Operating on blind instinct, it could be swayed first one way, then the other.

`Give us proof!' they shouted.

Now it was Halt's turn to raise his hands for silence.

`What proof do you want?' he shouted. 'The Warrior saved the village of Craikennis! He defeated two hundred and fifty men with his flaming sword!'

`And who saw this?' Tennyson demanded quickly. 'No one here! If he's the mighty warrior you claim, let him prove it in the surest manner of all! In combat!'

Now the crowd were really aroused. They might not know which of the two men they believed, but they were all eager at the thought of seeing a duel to the death. This was turning out to be a most diverting day.

`Trial by combat!' they chorused, and the demand swelled until Halt again raised his hands. The shouts died away and he faced Tennyson.

`And who is your champion?' he demanded.

Tennyson smiled. 'Not one but two. Let him face my twin retainers, Gerard and Killeen!'

He threw an arm back in a dramatic flourish to indicate the two islander giants. They stepped up onto the platform and the crowd howled in delight at the size of them.

Again, Halt had to wait for the shouting to die down. `You expect him to fight two men?' he asked.

Tennyson smiled again, appealing to the crowd.

`What's two men to a warrior who defeated two hundred and fifty?' he asked and the crowd yelled their support.

Halt hesitated. He'd expected a challenge to combat but he didn't believe Horace, with all his skill, could fight these two giants at the same time.

As he searched for a way out of the predicament, Horace stepped forward again. He moved close to Tennyson, invasively close, and the look in his eye caused the self-proclaimed prophet to take a small pace back. But even a small pace was enough to establish Horace's dominance.

`You talk of trial by combat, you cowardly fake!' He didn't seem to be shouting but his voice carried to all sides of the crowd. 'Trial by combat is single combat!'

Will decided it was time to join in again and make sure the crowd supported Horace. At the moment, he realised, they were ready to agree to anything.

`He's right!' he shouted. 'Single combat!'

And he felt a huge surge of relief when those around him took up the cry.

`Single combat! Single combat!' As he'd hoped, they didn't care about what was fair, but they wanted a show and they knew single combat would last longer than a one-sided competition of one on two.

Again, Horace's voice rang out over the square. His eyes were locked on Tennyson's.

`I'll fight both your mountains of blubber!' he said. `One at a time. One after the other. I'll defeat them and then I'll fight you, if you've the courage!'

And he shoved Tennyson hard in the chest, sending the white-robed man staggering back a pace. Behind Horace, the two islander giants started forward to their leader's defence. But they'd barely moved when Horace spun to face them. His sword seemed to leap into his hand of its own volition, and stopped with its gleaming point at the throat of the nearest of the two, stopping them both in their tracks.

There was a gasp of admiration at his blinding speed. Most of those present didn't even see him move. One moment he was facing Tennyson. The next his sword was threatening the two immense islanders. Instantly, Will saw there was another way to enlist the crowd's support.

`Two fights!' he yelled. 'Two fights instead of one!'

And they took up the cry. Now they had a chance of seeing twice as much bloodshed. And to this baying, half-drunk rabble, that meant twice the entertainment.

Tennyson, his face red with anger, glared at the crowd. He seemed about to demur but the shouting intensified, drowning him out.

`Two fights! Let's see two fights! Two fights! Two fights! Two fights!'

It became a rhythmic, insistent chant, one that brooked no argument. Tennyson understood mobs and as he listened to that repetitive, mindless chant, he knew he had no way of changing their mind.

He raised his hands and the chant died away. The mob watched him expectantly.

`Very well!' he agreed. 'Two fights!'

And the mob roared in exultation, taking up the chant again. Halt looked at Horace, a question in his eyes. Horace nodded confidently.

`Not a problem… your majesty.' He grinned as he added the last two words.

The crowd continued to yell its approval and Tennyson stepped closer to Halt. As he did so, Horace went to move to the side of the counterfeit King, with Sean half a second behind him. But Halt, unperturbed, held up a hand to stop them.

`Something on your mind, priest?' he asked.

For a moment, a frown touched Tennyson's face. There was something vaguely familiar about the King, he thought. But he couldn't place it. He discarded the momentary distraction and his cold anger returned.

`We had an agreement, Ferris,' he said in a low tone.

Halt raised an eyebrow. 'Ferris?' he said. 'Is that the way you address a king? I think you mean "your majesty".'

`You won't be King when I'm finished with you. People do not break agreements with me. I'll destroy your Sunrise Warrior and then I'll have you dragged from the throne, screaming like a frightened girl.'

Tennyson was confused and furious. All his intelligence, gathered by spies in the months preceding his march on Dun Kilty, had led him to expect a vacillating, uncertain, weak character. This hard-eyed King came as a surprise; he faced Tennyson's threats with no sign of fear or weakness.

`Brave talk, Tennyson, especially from a man who will be doing none of the fighting. And, I assume, none of the dragging. Now let me tell you something: scum like you don't make agreements with kings. You do their bidding. And you don't make threats to them, either. I'll ruin your plan and I'll destroy your filthy cult as well. And then I'll take a horsewhip to your fat, quivering hide and driveyou out of this country. And unlike you, my friend, I will do it personally!'

In the past two years, since he had begun his campaign to destabilise the island of Hibernia, nobody had dared to threaten Tennyson. Nobody had spoken to him with such an air of confident contempt. Now, looking into those dark eyes before him, he felt a slight tremor of fear. He saw no sign of doubt there. No sign that this was a man who could be cowed. Rather, he saw a promise that the King would carry out the threat he had just made. In a flickering moment of uncertainty, Tennyson wondered if he might not be wiser to withdraw from Clonmel and settle for his position of dominance in the other five kingdoms. But he sensed that the man before him wouldn't be content with that. They were both committed now and the situation would be resolved in trial by combat. He looked at his two massively built retainers, then at the muscular young warrior standing a pace behind the King. Surely no man could stand against both Killeen and Gerard, he thought.

But the young man looked supremely unworried by the prospect.