In due course the old gentleman toured the agreed-upon area for the contest, examined each weapon – and insisting that Terleman swap his mageblade for a cavalry blade he found acceptable, to ensure no secret spells were employed. Terl scoffed at that, and after Sir Larvone boasted to the crowd that wizards made lousy swordsmen, Terl made a point of warming up with a very advanced version of the Sword Dance of the Magi that emphasized balance and control. It was a highly effective demonstration.
Assured that the combatants were unwilling to settle their dispute without bloodshed, the old knight began the duel, and Terl continued the demonstration. It was evident to all from the very beginning who the better swordsman was. Terleman pressed Sir Larvone aggressively, forcing him to respond to an increasingly complex attack sequence. Sir Larvone did his best to counter each slash and thrust, but it took him only seconds to recognize that he was up against a vastly superior swordsman.
It took only a few moments for the look of arrogance on the Red Lion’s face to transform into one of concern. As some opponents do in such a situation, Sir Larvone began to let his guard slip around some obvious, but unimportant area of his body, hoping to let his opponent scratch him enough to consider the duel finished. What he didn’t know is that Terleman hates that sort of thing.
Scornfully he did not press the obvious advantage and take the easy way to end the duel. Instead, he started to give Sir Larvone instruction like he was a new squire in his first lesson at swordplay. As they circled each other in the garden, Terl was barking orders and giving criticism with the refined language of an Ancient.
“Pick up your feet! That’s it, more aggression . . . keep that point up! Don’t ever let your opponent slip into your blind side,” he lectured, as he did just that and smacked Sir Larvone with the flat of his blade . . . but drew no blood. “I’m within your zone of vulnerability – why did you let me do that? Pick up your feet! Don’t bend your wrist while attacking! That’s it, that’s better, but you’re reacting, you’re not taking the initiative. Press me . . . come on, press me! You’re more like a kitten than a lion . . . watch your balance . . . press me hard! Harder! Ishi’s tits, are you fighting a duel for your life or taking a godsdamn stroll? Press me . . . better . . . now change up that combination or I’ll take your sword from you next pass . . . and pick up your bloody feet!”
And so it went. Most duels are ceremonial affairs where the combatants spend an hour on the preliminaries for sometimes seconds of actual combat. Terleman had turned this one into an active demonstration on the warmage’s emphasis on swordplay. It wasn’t about humiliating Sir Larvone in front of his peers, as many had suspected in the first few moments of Terleman’s fight. It was about demonstrating what mediocre warriors the Gilmoran knights were on the ground. Larvone was clearly outmatched, everyone could see that. As the minutes ground on and their blades flashed under the magelight, Terleman was able to explain every one of his professional weaknesses as he wore Larvone into exhaustion.
When even Terleman was starting to get bored with the display, he ended swiftly . . . by taking Larvone’s blade out of position with a clever three-strike combination, pivoting quickly on his left foot, and adeptly carving a line through the flesh of Larvone’s cheek under his left eye where it would leave a scar for all to see.
“First blood!” the judge called, loudly. “End combat!”
Sir Larvone’s chest was heaving like a bellows as he leaned on his sword and wiped at his bloody face.
“I didn’t even feel that!” he complained as he tried to catch his breath.
“You will when you shave,” chuckled Terleman, as he cleaned the blood from his borrowed blade with magic before returning it to its owner. “Let it remind you of your folly this evening.”
“It is no folly to defend the honor of the chivalry!” the Red Lion roared.
“It is when you lack the credible means of that defense,” Terleman observed. “In pursuing your honor, you let me demonstrate the sad truth of the matter to one and all: Gilmora has mistaken dueling and jousting for warfare for far too long . . . and thousands of Gilmorans paid the price for their mistake with their lives.
“Look at you: you’re heaving like an old man when you should be just getting started,” he pointed out, ticking off each point of criticism on his fingers. “Your technique is passive and lackluster. It’s clear you haven’t indulged in swordplay practice in some time, and then with a sword master, not a real opponent. You are dependent on standard combinations in your attacks and do not know how to respond to novelty. You are easily surprised and easily led. You didn’t do anything – anything! – in that fight that I didn’t want you to, nor did you once surprise me. You let me dance you around like we were inside the hall having a lovely pavane. And your footwork . . . with all the dancing masters in Gilmora, how is it possible you fight like that? You drag your feet and let them anchor you to the ground when they should be speeding you to your next attack.”
“Peace, Magelord!” the referee called, grumpily. “You have made your point!”
“Have I?” Terleman shot back, addressing the entire crowd. “Let us all hope so. For when the gurvani return to Gilmora – and they will – they will not be as patient and kind-hearted as I have been. Take heed: you must do far more to prepare for real battle, not jousting. For if the defense of Gilmora is left in the hands of Gilmorans. As you fight now, you are doomed.”
“You speak rudely, Sir!” the elderly judge reproved.
“So does Duin’s sacred axe,” Terleman retorted. “Forgive me, my lords and ladies, I am recently made a lord and don’t have your training in the finer arts of cultured society. I am a soldier,” he stated, flatly. “I fight to defend all of humanity, not for prizes or honor. You ignore my words at your peril: had not the king established the three Commando companies and hired warmagi, all of Gilmora would have fallen, not just the north.”
“So what would the wizards have us do?” drawled one skeptical voice from the crowd. It was meant sarcastically. Terleman took it as an honest question.
“Send your sons to train with sword and make them learn,” Terleman lectured, sternly. “Set your common folk to learning the bow and crossbow, and drill them as soldiers, and you’ll find them of far more use in war. Stop depending upon past glories and the honors of your ancestors, put down the wineglass, and pick up your rusty blades! Fortify your towns and strengthen your castles! Do you not yet realize that all the forces of darkness lurk just beyond the horizon?” he pleaded. “Undead have attacked the palaces at Vorone, Falas and Castabriel. The Westlands and Caramas have all but fallen to the Nemovorti. Dragons have destroyed a half-dozen of your castles. Goblins have tainted your land and will do so again . . . do you think they are defeated?”
“We have a treaty!” a feminine voice called, fearfully.
“We had a treaty,” Mavone interjected. “With the Goblin King. Who is now in exile from his own lands. Korbal the Necromancer rules the Mindens, now, from the Umbra to Olum Seheri. He recognizes no treaty with humanity. He builds his strength. His undead scouts are spreading their foul plague through the Westlands. The Wilderlands is in tatters. Your shields to the west, my lords and ladies, are effectively gone,” he emphasized.
“If you cling to your vaunted honor instead of investing in your defense,” Terleman continued, patiently, “you will enjoy the same fate of so many of your lost fellows. Duels and jousts are fine entertainments, but we are at war.”
“It’d be a helluva lot easier to build armies if we had our bloody people back!” complained one drunken lord. “Twice we sent to the Wilderlands to retrieve them, and twice we were rebuffed!”
“You sent your agents to the Magelaw,” I corrected. “As Count of the Magelaw, I have freed all former slaves of the gurvani from their legal bonds before their enslavement. They are free to return – if they desire. If they haven’t returned, you can assume that they are either dead or have better prospects there.”
“You ca
n’t do that!” somebody exploded, as the crowd began an ugly murmur.
“Actually, he can,” Mavone reported. “He is the Count Palatine. Only the Duke can overrule his edicts. The Duke of Alshar,” he added, with a hint of a grin.
“Those are our people!” one lord insisted, pushing forward through the crowd to confront me. “My estates lost six or seven hundred peasants! Only a handful have returned, and they’re barely functioning!”
“Then hire more,” Mavone suggested. “For all those who wish to return to Gilmora have done so, now. The rest have chosen to remain in the Magelaw.”
“They can’t do that!” he continued, aggressively. “They have obligations!”
“I just said they can,” I pointed out, evenly. “And their obligations are canceled. Find some other means of planting and harvesting your fields. Paying a decent wage, for instance. I’m sure in a few years, a decade, Gilmora will recover, if it isn’t invaded again or worse. But you might have to attend fewer fancy balls and stately tournaments until they do,” I warned, a trace of mockery in my voice.
“I will file suit with the duke about this!” one old lord complained, bitterly.
“Which one?” I asked. “Anguin himself gave me my appointment. You can file suit with the Castali ducal court,” I admitted, “but Castal has no jurisdiction over the Magelaw. Though I’m certain Prince Tavard would enjoy hearing the case. Alas, he can offer you no assistance. You could press your suit to the Royal Court,” I conceded. “They may think it novel. But would you prevail?” I asked, haughtily. “Doubtful. I will be keeping your people in the Magelaw. Unless you want to try to compel me to release them, they will stay there.”
“Don’t think that we couldn’t!” challenged the old lord. “You can’t just go around stealing other people’s peasants!”
“Those peasants are people, too,” Sandoval insisted. “And they’ve suffered damnably under the gurvani lash. Some of them have returned here, and told their tale – did you not believe them?”
There was a murmur in the crowd over that, too. Astyral later informed me that many of those who returned from enslavement after the Great Emancipation had discovered their horror compounded by a kind of social disbelief in their stories.
It was as if Gilmoran society was trying to ignore the ugly truth about what happened in the invasion, and relegated any who could bear witness to the horror to the margins of their society. The wise among the returned slaves kept quiet about their experiences, when it became clear their horrific tales weren’t welcomed in polite Gilmoran society. The bitter tended to leave Gilmora altogether.
Everyone else just tried to pretend that it hadn’t happened, unless they were forced by circumstances to confront “the unpleasantness.” Perhaps it was Gilmora’s dismal showing on the field, the loss of so many young heirs, or trauma about the burned villages and ghastly post-mortem displays of their victims the Gilmorans wanted to forget. Regardless, no one wanted to think about the cost in human suffering their lands and people had endured.
“That does not excuse them from fulfilling their obligations under law!” the drunk old lord nearly screamed.
“The Magelaw is its own law,” Mavone declared. “Those people are under the protection of Count Minalan the Spellmonger. Accept that. Because the only way you will see them in Gilmora again is if you fetch them back by force.”
After that, we’d worn out our welcome at the ball, and after sending Astyral a farewell, mind-to-mind, I made a big show of transporting us all back to Vanador by means of the Ways. I added in a few effects to make our departure more dramatic, because I’m that kind of wizard, and Astyral reported later that most of the crowd was suitably impressed by it.
Indeed, the talk of the Barrowbell Fair for days was the dramatic duel, the insult paid to Gilmoran chivalry (compounded by Sir Larvone’s humiliating defeat) and the sheer temerity of the Magelords in disturbing the peace of the Count’s Champion’s Tournament and Ball. Of course, news of the events spread far and wide, as all such gossip does, and was augmented in a hundred unlikely ways before week’s end.
But the goal had been accomplished: the wizards of the Magelaw had boldly insulted Gilmora after unfairly retaining the freed Gilmoran slaves. Most of the ancient noble houses took offense at the tale.
Particularly Counts Anvaram and Omard. Both were friends of Tavard, and both sent a letter within the week complaining about the poor behavior of the magi – me, specifically. With a little persuasion they convinced Count Salgren to sign it, as well. They discussed the matter with their vassals (many who had been present themselves) and their enmity for me and all wizards churned.
Their appeals were met with sympathy, but no action, when their duke responded. Prince Tavard was busy rebuilding his palace in Castabriel and trying to raise his family and keep his duchy from debt. While he didn’t have time for an idle feud, particularly since his father had forbidden it, he strongly encouraged the counts to consider what action they could take.
It was supposedly a “secret” letter. Mavone had a complete copy in my hands within three days of the counts of Gilmora receiving it.
“If you wanted to stir them up, you’ve succeeded,” he sighed, after I’d read Tavard’s response.
“I did, and I haven’t, yet,” I replied, as my eyes flicked over the page. “Tavard has given them his blessing, but that’s about all. It’s up to them to act on it.”
“You don’t think they will? You realize that some Gilmoran feuds go back centuries? To before there was a Gilmora? My people can hold a grudge.”
“I don’t think they can,” I countered. “Count Anvaram may have a thousand lances at his disposal, but it takes time and money to muster them. And cause. As insulted as he feels, will his vassals support a war to defend his honor?”
“Not yet,” Mavone sighed. “You’re right, that’s not enough. I assume that’s where you have Astyral’s assistance?”
“And his intended bride’s family – charming people. Who hold Alshari sympathies. They will cooperate. That should stir them up far beyond the point of reason, I’m hoping. If not, we’ll stir further.”
“You don’t think this will get Rard upset that you’re meddling with his vassals?”
“I’m his vassal, too,” I pointed out. “And I’m a wizard. We meddle. That’s what we do.”
The events of the Barrowbell Tournament had other effects, some of which I’d planned, some of which I hadn’t.
Having a few bawdy ballads commissioned about a countess and another well-endowed stable boy were continuing their affair under the nose of the count commissioned and sung in taverns and inns from Barrowbell to Nion was simple enough. It increased the fire in Count Anvaram’s heart when he heard them on his trip back to his seat. Rumor was, he had every stable boy in all of his estates beaten, then examined by a monk to determine which ones were likely culprits.
The announcement in Barrowbell from the lips of the Spellmonger, himself, had dashed many of the hopes of those northern lords who wanted their peasants back. I knew I could expect another delegation begging, threatening, and pleading for them, in a few weeks. That, too, was part of my plan.
But I hadn’t counted on the Lion of Gilmora’s humiliation being so grave. Gilmoran society is rigid, and part of that rigidity is an oversized emphasis on chivalric honor. The scar on his face was as much a reminder of his failure to everyone else as it was to him. The gaudy red lion on his shield began to get ridiculed, and the people took to calling him the Kitten of Gilmora and jeering. That made the proud knight seethe and turn to drink – rarely a productive combination.
Nor had I counted on word of the incident making its way all the way to Falas, but it did, and into the ears of my Duke. Anguin requested, via Pentandra, a conference by magical Mirror to discuss it.
“I have received four letters from friends in Gilmora who were delighted by your actions,” he reported through the watery bowl of magic. “All from strong families who favor Alshari r
ule. None have crossed the line into sedition, but they danced painfully close. They are of the opinion that there may be opportunity to reclaim the land, in the future. I have also received a letter from Count Anvaram begging me to rebuke you for your intransigence on the issue of the peasants. As your liege, he demands I do something.”
“My goal was not to change Gilmora’s banner,” I pointed out. “But to stir the Gilmorans from their lethargy. They must learn to protect themselves, should the goblins return, and they would rather have balls and tournaments and try to forget their peril.”
“As a duke, I am forced to remind you that you have no jurisdiction in Gilmora – nor do I, save as lord in vassalage to Tavard for my lands there. Castali law, not Alshari, rules there.”
“You mislike my policies, Your Grace?” I asked, concerned.
“As a duke, I must. Officially. I cannot support any attempt to return Gilmora to Alshari rule, under the terms of treaty. But neither can I necessarily control my great nobles when I am preoccupied with an insurgency in the Coast Lands and the entire county of Caramas overrun by walking corpses. Not to mention the Farisian navy harassing shipping. So . . . tisk, tisk. Consider yourself rebuked.”
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