One blade was very flexible, but it didn’t spring back straight. Another wouldn’t bend much at all when tested. The third blade, however, met with the prisoner’s approval. He inserted his right hand into the bell-guard and put his left hand over the rounded metal, gripping the light blade like a broadsword. He lifted the weapon above his head and brought it arcing down several times, like he was swinging an axe to cut a tree.
Skavendr and King Bjarni exchanged a knowing look. Spirit on the part of the prisoner wouldn’t be enough to give the scout-captain much of a fight.
“Clear the deck,” the king commanded.
Warrior-sailors moved the benches that had been put in place for Nûd and Eynon. The king and queen stood and moved their own folding thrones back a spear-length, opening a square space about fifteen feet from side to side and mast to thrones. Skavendr moved to port and indicated to the prisoner that he should move to starboard. Bjarni and Signý sat comfortably on the repositioned thrones with Sigrun and Rannveigr close together at their feet like a pair of playful puppies. The three wizards in gold robes stood directly behind the thrones. Eynon and Nûd stood next to the mainmast, with Rocky farther toward the prow behind them. Members of the crew who weren’t required for safe sailing gathered wherever they could find a good spot to watch.
“What are the rules of the trial?” asked Nûd, addressing the king and queen.
“They’re simple,” said Skavendr before either monarch could answer. “When the egg-head is dead or surrenders, it’s over.” The scout-captain grinned across the deck at his opponent, who was holding his blade down and shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.
“So the only rule is that there aren’t rules?” asked Nûd, locking eyes with Bjarni, then shifting his gaze to the queen, then back to the king.
“The trial is over when I say it’s over,” said Bjarni. “Anyone jumping over the side will get a crossbow bolt through their chest. Any use of wizardry to aid either party is forbidden.”
The king glanced at Eynon, who nodded. The three women in gold robes with amber necklaces stared at Eynon in a way that made it plain they’d enforce their sovereign’s prohibition on magic.
“Are we ready to begin?” asked Queen Signý.
“Aye,” said Skavendr.
“As I’ll ever be,” said the prisoner.
The queen turned in her seat and nodded to the women in gold robes. Before she could turn back, a yellow-tinted wall of solidified sound ten feet high materialized in front of the thrones, protecting the king and queen. The woman in the middle of the gold-robed trio extended her hand toward Eynon, who created a similar wall on his side with a pink tinge. A breeze from the river moving from port to starboard swirled dust on the deck inside their makeshift arena.
“Lay on,” said King Bjarni to both combatants. “And don’t play with your food,” he added as an aside for his scout-captain.
“I’ll make it quick,” said Skavendr, moving the head of his axe in front of him in a mesmerizing figure-eight pattern. “I’ve got more to tell you about the Roma legions.”
The scout-captain and the prisoner approached each other and circled just outside the maximum reach of Skavendr’s axe. The prisoner held his sword at waist height close to his body with the blade reaching up in front of his face. Skavendr stamped his boot on the deck and lunged, letting his hands slide down to the last foot of the haft of his axe. He aimed for the prisoner’s stomach, hoping to push him off balance.
The prisoner’s eyes went wide and he flailed at the axe-head with his bell-guard, pushing it down and to the side.
“You do know that toadsticker has a blade, don’t you,” said Skavendr. He’d pulled his axe back and resumed circling the prisoner. “Then again, you wouldn’t get much experience using blades just taking strawberries to Brendinas.”
The prisoner shifted from holding his blade straight up, close to his chest, and extended his arm, the tip of his sword wavering uncertainly. He didn’t speak, though his face looked like a mouse cornered by a cat.
“If you’re a spy, you probably do have experience with blades,” Skavendr continued, as he tested the prisoner by batting at the other man’s outstretched sword. “Just shorter ones.”
“I told you not to play with your food,” said King Bjarni with a smile in his voice. “Finish this.”
The prisoner took advantage of the distraction provided by the king’s words and rushed the scout captain, swinging his blade wildly. Skavendr parried the blows easily, blocking them with the reinforcing strips on the haft of his axe. He swung the head around, twisting it to hit with the flat, not the blade, aiming for the side of the prisoner’s skull. Unfortunately, his target was no longer where it had been. The prisoner’s head was a foot lower as he cowered from the scout-captain’s attack.
Nûd whispered to Eynon. “Are you going to do something before baldy is killed?”
“Wait,” said Eynon.
Something about the prisoner’s movements reminded him of the way his quarterstaff instructor back in the Coombe—a distant cousin—used to play with new students at weekly levy drills.
Skavendr took one hand off his axe and beckoned to the prisoner. “Come here, Strawberry,” he said. “You’ll look good with a thrall’s torc around your neck.” As he spoke the last word, Skavendr tossed his axe in the air, grabbed the last foot of the haft, and repeated his original attack aimed at the prisoner’s stomach.
The prisoner beat the axe-head down with his bell-guard, forced it to the deck with a booted foot, and walked up the haft toward Skavendr. The scout-captain didn’t have good control of his weapon since he’d only been holding it in one hand. He was staring down at the deck, ready to retrieve his axe, when the prisoner’s bell-guard caught him under the chin, snapping his jaw shut and knocking him backward. Skavendr’s head hit the deck and he lay still.
“You talk too much,” said the prisoner.
He gave the scout-captain a gentle shove with his boot and only got a small moan for his effort. Bending down, he lifted the pull-stone on its thong around Skavendr’s neck and placed it around his own neck.
Sigrun and Rannveigr were clapping until Queen Signý gestured to them and they stopped. Nûd gave Eynon a what-did-you-know-that-I-didn’t-know look, then stared at the prisoner.
The bald young man faced the thrones. “I assume I’m free to go?”
Behind him, an apple core fell from the top of the mainmast and bounced off Skavendr’s nose.
Chapter 34
Damon
Damon waved his hands in front of his face a few more times, then opened a congruency to a high, cold mountain. The resulting difference in air pressure sucked most of the midges out of the Conclave’s assembly hall.
“Who’s in charge of this madhouse?” he said, amplifying his voice with a transparent solidified-sound megaphone.
“That’s what those two were trying to determine,” answered Inthíra.
“Of all the foolish nonsense to be wasting time doing…” Damon began. He stopped abruptly when he realized his subconscious grumbling was loud enough to fill the hall. He took a deep breath and pointed at the two wizards coated in ice. “Someone thaw them out before they get frostbite.”
Three young wizards with painted flying disks strapped to their backs stepped forward. One opened a link to the far south and directed warm sunlight on the combatants. Another connected to a desert’s hot winds. The third opened a temporary circular hole below the once-dueling mages to ensure the melting water didn’t pool on the tile floor of the assembly hall.
“Why aren’t you already formed into fighting units and joining the royal army?” Damon asked Inthíra. “There’s a Bifurland dragonship fleet heading up river and the army’s already marching down the west bank of the Brenavon to stop them.”
“We know,” shouted a solid-robed wizard with long brown hair and a deep contralto to Damon’s left. “That’s what Doethan was trying to tell Hibblig, but Hibblig wanted to fight for leadersh
ip of the Conclave.”
“Doethan was one of the people fighting?” asked Damon. “I didn’t see who was fighting, I just saw a duel in the middle of the assembly hall and sent a blast of cold to stop them.” Damon muttered softly, still not realizing his solidified-sound megaphone amplified everything. “I would have expected more sense from Doethan.”
“He didn’t want to fight,” said Inthíra.
“Hibblig forced the issue,” said the wizard with long brown hair.
Unamplified muttering hummed around the hall as the gathered wizards talked about the duel and Ealdamon’s arrival. In the center of the hall, the ice around Doethan was almost completely melted. The young wizard who’d created the temporary hole to drain water rose on his flying disk and pried Hibblig’s fingers off the older wizard’s neck. The two descended to the floor and Doethan held the younger wizard’s arm to stay upright with one hand and rubbed his neck with the other.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” said Damon, smiling.
“So am I,” said Doethan. “There was nothing to worry about. I had him right where I wanted him.” Doethan grinned and a wave of laughter sped around the hall. Even some wizards in striped robes joined in.
“Sorry I had to freeze you,” said Damon.
“Think nothing of it, Master Mage,” said Doethan, releasing the young wizard’s arm and stepping toward Damon on the platform. “A mug of hot cider will warm me up. I’m glad you’re here to lead the Conclave and get us organized. I didn’t really want the job.”
“No one with any sense would,” said Damon.
“Uhhh-uhh-oof!” said Hibblig as the last of the ice around him melted and he tumbled to the hard tile floor. The two young wizards melting his cold coating had tried to slow his fall, but Hibblig was too big and had too much inertia for them to be successful.
I wonder if either one of them tried very hard, thought Damon.
More laughter—at Hibblig’s expense—filled the hall. The big man got to his knees and shook himself like a dog. Nearby wizards put up shields to save themselves from flying droplets. A few seconds later, Hibblig stood and glared up at Damon on the platform.
“I’m the kingdom’s master mage,” said Damon. “Leading the Conclave has always been a prerogative of that role. Do you want to challenge my right to lead?”
Hibblig stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “You’ve been gone for forty years, Old Man. What do you know about the kingdom?”
“More than you might think,” said Damon. “And I’ve probably trained half of the wizards in this hall at my Academy.”
From the tone of the murmurs around the hall, Damon was right. Hibblig had not been one of the wizards accepted for study in Melyncárreg, however. Few wizards now wearing striped robes had.
“A wizard’s duel isn’t the only way leadership in the Conclave is determined,” Hibblig said. His chin stuck out in challenge. “And it shows your character for you to suggest it when you stopped me from earning my rightful position. It’s unfair for you to suggest a duel after I’m already tired from defeating Doethan.”
“Hah!” Doethan exclaimed from near the platform.
“There is another way to determine who will lead us,” Hibblig continued. “I call for a vote of all wizards present.”
Damon shook his head. “Are you always this stubborn and opportunistic?”
“Afraid you won’t win, Old Man? Afraid the kingdom’s wizards want younger and more vigorous leadership?”
“I’m confident the Conclave will prefer someone who hasn’t been swilling potions to increase his strength and aggression,” said Damon.
“How did—I mean—how dare you level such baseless accusations?”
“What did she tell you they’d do?” said Damon softly. Everyone heard what he’d said.
“Enough of this foolishness,” said Hibblig. He raised his arms to encourage his followers. “I’ve called for a vote. Do I have a second?”
“I second!” came from a wizard with a long white forked beard in striped robes.
“I second,” said a short free wizard wearing shoes with three-inch wooden soles.
“I second,” said Doethan. “The sooner we finish with the vote, the sooner we can join the royal army.”
“The motion to vote has been made and seconded,” said Inthíra. “Does anyone other than Ealdamon and Hibblig wish to stand for leadership?” She scanned the hall. “Very well. Vote for Damon by projecting a circle of tight light on the ceiling to the left of the platform, or for Hibblig by projecting a square to the right.”
Wizards made their choices and sent their votes up to the domed ceiling to be counted. Damon added his glowing blue circle and Hibblig his square. The vote was far closer than Damon expected. Princess Gwýnnett must have offered substantial inducements to a great many free wizards, he thought.
“Have you all made your choices?” asked Inthíra. She glanced around the room and saw every wizard’s arm raised and many nodding heads. “Very well. Let’s see who’s won.”
After first nodding to Damon and Hibblig, Inthíra commanded the voters to take the next step. “Pair up!” she shouted.
Damon and Hibblig matched theirs first. Circles and squares blurred across the ceiling until each square had a circle inside it. One circle remained unbound by a square. It was Merry’s vote.
“Who is this?” complained Hibblig. “She’s not a member of the Conclave. She hasn’t been tested.”
“Fercha trained me,” said Merry, amplifying her voice. “Let me demonstrate my skill.”
She pulled her circle-vote down from the ceiling and made it grow until it was a dozen feet across. Moving her fingers faster than Damon’s eyes could follow, she filled the circle with a knotwork net of glowing blue force. Taking a deep breath, Merry shot the net forward, wrapping Hibblig up in its interlaced azure strands and lifting him to the ceiling where more iridescent-blue cables of tight light held him fast.
“Would anyone care to dispute my membership in the Conclave?” asked Merry in her sweetest voice.
The hall was silent except for Hibblig’s protests from overhead.
“Ealdamon wins,” said Inthíra. “What next, Master Mage?”
“We head for a certain inn near the palace,” said Damon. “It has a gate to the village of Arthábben, on the west bank. We can link up with the royal army there.”
Half the wizards cheered—the ones in solid-colored robes and a good fraction of the free wizards. The ones in striped robes and the remaining free wizards didn’t look happy, but most of them seemed willing to comply.
Damon told Inthíra the name of the inn and she led a procession of wizards out of the assembly hall to walk the few blocks to their interim destination. Soon, Merry, Damon, Doethan and Hibblig were the only ones left.
“That was a nice piece of tight-light work,” said Damon.
“Thank you, Master Mage,” said Merry, making a small bow.
Damon shook his head and smiled at her.
“You learned a lot from Fercha in a short time,” said Doethan.
“You gave me a good start,” said Merry. “And Fercha worked me hard.”
Hibblig continued to complain above them. Damon, Doethan and Merry looked up.
“An excellent spell,” said Damon, admiring how Merry’s net of light grew tighter around Hibblig the more he struggled.
“Are you going to release him?” asked Doethan.
“You’ve made your point,” said Damon.
“Neither one of you is any fun,” said Merry. “But don’t worry. I’ve put the tight-light net on a time delay.”
Soon, the construct disappeared and Hibblig had to scramble to craft a solidified-sound sphere to break his fall.
He was the only witness to his downfall, however. Damon, Doethan and Merry were already gone.
Chapter 35
Túathal and Verro
“You’re sure this will work?” asked King Túathal. “We’re going to win?”
> “We’re talking about war, brother,” said Verro. “There aren’t any guarantees, but I’m confident.”
King and wizard stood on a low hill above a broad marshaling field west of Tamloch’s capital. With his palace and the walls of the city behind him, Túathal reviewed the royal Tamloch army filling nearly every acre of the wide, flat plain below. Pipers wailed as new forces marched in to ensure the empty spots were filled.
There were thousands of foot soldiers with swords, pikes, spears and axes. Ranks of archers, separated into crossbow and longbow corps, were interspersed between squares of infantry. Units of heavy cavalry—barded horses carrying armored knights—were smaller in number but took up a disproportionate amount of space. Fast scouts on horseback, mounted infantry, and horse archers were in the van. Green banners snapped in the strong breeze off the cool water of Fadacaolo Bay. They signified the warriors’ duchy, county, or barony.
Túathal turned to look at his capital. Riyas was located at the north end of the bay. It was the best harbor in the kingdom and was usually a forest of masts, but now the docks were almost empty. Every ship that could carry supplies had sailed south days ago. A young man with curly red hair and a pointed beard, carrying a silver tray, two goblets, and a large, green-glass bottle approached.
“Would you care for refreshment, Your Majesty? Master Mage?” asked the young man.
“Yes, thank you, Sal,” said Verro. “I could use some wine. Herding unit commanders is thirsty work.”
“Just half a cup for me, boy,” said Túathal. “And for him,” the king added, indicating Verro. “I want him to have a clear head.”
Sal filled a goblet halfway with red wine from the bottle and handed it to the king with a small bow, keeping the tray perfectly level as he did. Turning to Verro, Sal filled the second goblet three-quarters of the way to the top and gave it to Verro with a sly wink. The wizard nodded his appreciation. Sal bowed again and backed a dozen feet away downhill—close enough to hear what was said, thanks to the listening charm Doethan had made for him.
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