Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

“Perhaps I didn’t stress the urgency of-”

Isen started to dismount as if I were just flapping my lips to pass the time.

“-urgency of my mission. I didn’t leave a city in the middle of an assault, a city I should add of which I happen to be marshal, so I could pass the time of day with every acquaintance-”

“Get off your horse, Prince Jalan, this won’t take long.” Count Isen beckoned Hennan forward, and finding him reluctant, went to the boy and set a hand to his shoulder. Hennan appeared to have grown a foot taller since I last set eyes on him and now stood a couple of inches taller than the count. “This young man seems to think rather well of you, my prince. You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you?” Isen steered those mad black insect’s eyes of his my way. Unlike his men he went unarmoured, his fur-trimmed cloak too warm for the weather. Leather gauntlets lay one across the other over the pommel of his saddle.

With a sigh I dismounted. Murder could surely outrun Isen’s knights but there’s something about being stared at by people who expect more of you . . . it’s rather like an anchor, a damned inconvenient anchor. Ignoring Isen, I strode across to Kara, looking rather fine in a plain linen road-dress, her hair in braids as it had been when we first met. The sun had finally darkened her skin and it suited her. “Kara.” I offered her my best smile.

“Thief!” Her slap caught me off guard.

“Ow! For godsake, Kara!” I reeled back, clutching my face. I could feel her handprint burning there in red, thankfully on the opposite side to the one Lisa had chosen. “Jesus!” Isen whacked me around the “Lisa’s side” of my face, swinging one of his heavy gauntlets-he had to stretch to reach but he put enough power in it to snap my head around, sending out a spray of spit and surprise. “Oh come on!” I bellowed, staggering away, hands raised in defence. “What the hell was that for?”

By way of answer Isen held up his thumb and forefinger, pinched together as if presenting something for my inspection. Through the tears in my eyes I could see something tiny and golden.

“What is it?” I wiped my mouth, finding my fingers bloody.

“A reason,” Isen said.

“It’s a fucking small reason!” I shouted.

“It looks like a sharp little piece of gold,” Snorri offered. I’d rather he just divided Isen into two even smaller pieces.

“It’s a splinter,” Isen said, speaking through gritted teeth. “I had it gold plated. Care to guess where I found it?”

“I’m thinking . . . when they stuck that stick up your arse.” The pain in my face made me temporarily forget that he had several hundred men lined up behind him-though I was gratified to see quite a few of them battling to keep a smile from their lips.

“I discovered it under my scalp a month after you hit me from behind with a tree branch. Finding it returned the memory of the incident to me. And now, sir, we shall conclude the matter that should have been settled at the roadside many months ago.” He drew the gleaming length of his sword. Seeing him there with that same mad look in his eye, his lips pressed in a thin and murderous line beneath his grey moustache, made me remember just how fast he was with a blade and how much I didn’t want to face him again.

I drew myself to my full height, keeping my hand well clear of my sword hilt, and tried for haughty dignity. “I’ll grant you that some blow has scrambled your wits, Isen, but it was none of mine. I’ve no time for your games and no intention of being side-tracked from such urgent business.”

“Speechify all you like, Prince Jalan, but by God you will not leave this spot until I have had my satisfaction.”

By which the lunatic clearly meant, dead and slung over a horse. I racked my brains, while stepping backward.

“If he tries to run ride him down, Sir Thant!” The little count knew me too well.

Even if Snorri cut one knight down he couldn’t get them all. Plus he expected me to fight Isen. He probably thought my reluctance was on account of the man’s stature.

“Since I’m challenged I get to choose the weapons.” An extensive knowledge of duelling might save me yet.

“Swords!” Isen replied, both eyebrows elevating to quite a remarkable degree. “What else is there? No gentlemen would have at each other with peasants’ weapons like the axe or scythe!”

Snorri growled, but made no move. I rubbed at my aching jaw a moment. Isen would refuse any weapon beneath his station and be within his rights. I could feel the imprint of his gauntlet on my cheek, and it gave me an idea. “Fisticuffs!” I said, balling both hands and raising them.

“What?” Isen leaned forward, craning his neck as if he thought he’d misheard.

“Fisticuffs! The sport of kings,” I said. “No gouging, no biting, no blows below the belt.” I knew from painful experience that they taught the art to young princes, and I imagined young countlings were not excused the rigours of such an education either.

“I’m not going to brawl on Her Majesty’s road like some drunken commoner-”

“Have a care, Isen. My grandmother encourages the pugilistic art in the very highest of circles-I trust you aren’t going to criticize her judgment any more than you would deny the challenged party the age-old right of choosing his weapons.” I brandished both fists. “And here they are!” I didn’t exactly relish the prospect but I’d beaten a few opponents into the dust in my time, and Isen fulfilled one of my acceptance criteria, standing no taller than your average twelve-year-old boy.

Isen scowled. “If I must beat you to death with my bare hands, Prince Jalan, then that is exactly what I will do.” He passed his sword up to Sir Thant, of whom I could see little but a beard bristling below his pot helm and fierce eyes glinting in the shadows behind a visor.

“Well and good.” He had big balls, I gave him that. I’d expected him to bluster and call the whole thing off.

I passed my sword to Snorri in its scabbard. “Your dagger too.” Snorri motioned with his eyes to my other hip. “I’ve seen men stab each other in brawls without meaning to-once the blood gets up instincts take over.”

I clenched my teeth and managed to thank him through them whilst handing over my knife.

The knights rode into position so as to mark out the four corners of a fighting ground and the front ranks of Isen’s command filed around to watch, completing the square. Snorri loomed over the soldiers on one side, frowning.

“Well . . . all right then,” I said, squaring up to my opponent and feeling slightly embarrassed. Somewhere in the sea of faces Kara and the boy would be watching. I wasn’t sure that flattening a half-crazed midget would raise me in their estimation.

Isen came at me, fists raised, ducking and bobbing like some enraged chicken. Somewhat embarrassed for both of us, I took a swing at him, knowing I had at least a foot more reach, not to mention two or three decades and seventy pounds. The little maniac ducked under my arm and surged up to loose a flurry of blows at my stomach and ribs. It felt rather like being struck by small iron mallets. Iron mallets, small or large, are incredibly painful. Yelping, I leapt away, only to find him bearing down on me immediately.

“Steady on . . . I don’t want to hurt you.” The jab I threw his way had everything I could muster behind it. Isen blocked the punch on both his fists, just before his face, then hit me in the wrist with a vicious uppercut before I could pull my arm back. It hurt like fuck and left my wrist aching.

I glanced at Snorri for inspiration. He mimed a punch, and I turned back to find Isen doing exactly that. At nearly full stretch he struck me on the jaw. It felt as if my head had exploded: I saw lights flash, the world spin, and a bone-rattling reunion with the ground allowed me to deduce that some falling had been involved too. Lifting my head and squinting I could make out two smaller figures advancing on me. Was I really going to end my illustrious career by being beaten to death by midgets?