by Brandon Mull
Servants wheeled out a tremendous cooked bird on a cart. The enormous fowl was called a ponchut; it was big enough to rival an ostrich, with soft, pink meat. Servants moved the cart around the table, portioning out slices of the bird along with a creamy sauce.
“You want to leave now?” Jason murmured to Tark.
Tark glanced over. “Whenever you decide.”
“I’ve looked around; the wall is high, and there are no doors. The drawbridge never seems to open.”
“I’ve reached a similar conclusion.”
“Might be hard to scale the wall.”
“Seems designed that way.”
Jason ate some of his meat. The sauce made it delicious.
“I think we need to declare our intent to leave,” Jason said. “We should do it publicly, so there will be pressure from the other guests to let us go.”
“Might be worth a try,” Tark said, fidgeting with his napkin.
Jason ate more meat. He took a sip of fruit juice. Then he stood up.
“I have an announcement to make,” Jason declared.
Everybody froze, including a servant in the middle of handing a plate to a plump woman. Only Duke Conrad made announcements at dinner.
“I want to publicly thank Duke Conrad for his hospitality,” Jason continued. The other diners visibly relaxed. Several tapped their stemware with their forks in approval.
“I have thoroughly enjoyed my stay here,” Jason said, nodding graciously at Conrad, “but the time has come for me to depart.”
Silence.
Drake covered his mouth with a napkin, stifling a laugh.
Conrad’s features hardened. Muscles pulsed in his lean jaw. Count Dershan forced a laugh. “A fine jest, Lord Jason,” Dershan approved hopefully.
“No. I am leaving this evening. I don’t mean to offend anyone.”
Duke Conrad arose, tossing his napkin aside, and walked down the table to Jason. The two stood facing each other. “No man has ever refused my hospitality,” Conrad said softly, his tone lethal, his eyes demanding submission.
“Neither have I,” Jason replied. “I accepted it. I thank you for it. And now I’m leaving.”
Duke Conrad frowned. “My invitation offered indefinite participation in the Eternal Feast,” Conrad said. “All who come here recognize this. To accept less insults my honor.”
“I mean no insult,” Jason said. “I was under the impression I was welcome to stay but free to leave when I wanted.”
“All men are free to do as they will,” Conrad said, his voice dangerously reasonable. “But you have not even remained here a week. Such an affront is insupportable. Are you resolved to pursue this course of action?”
“I am.”
“Then you force my hand. I, Duke Conrad, challenge you, Lord Jason of Caberton, to a duel!”
“No, milord,” exclaimed Kimp, rising from his chair. “Let me handle this miscreant.”
Duke Conrad motioned for Kimp to be seated. “Lord Jason is a member of the aristocracy. Disputes among nobles are best settled by nobles.” Some of the guests nodded sagely at this statement. “I repeat myself—I challenge you to a duel, tomorrow at dawn.”
“I refuse,” Jason said. “Can I go now?”
Several of the stunned guests stifled laughs. Drake tried to pretend he was coughing. “I am your superior in rank,” Duke Conrad insisted, voice quavering with indignation. “You have no right to refuse.”
“I do anyway.”
“Let me rephrase. I will not allow you to refuse, no matter how great your cowardice.”
“In that case I accept.”
“Rapiers at dawn,” Conrad declared.
Jason thought about movies he had seen where people challenged each other to duels. “Wait. You made the challenge. Don’t I get to choose the weapons?”
“Perhaps, if we were of comparable rank, but it is unthinkable that I should condescend to permit an upstart lordling the selection of arms. Consider yourself fortunate I do not simply let Kimp dispose of you.”
The injustice of the situation made Jason’s ears burn. He had an audience. He needed to state his case convincingly.
“I am not only Lord Jason of Caberton,” Jason explained, partially restraining his anger. “I am the chancellor of Trensicourt, second in command after the regent.”
The guests murmured. For an instant Conrad’s rigid expression faltered. “Untrue. You abandoned your office, and Copernum was reinstated.”
“I abandoned nothing!” Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out the chancellor’s signet ring. “I left secretly on a private errand. Anyone who claimed my title in my absence will answer to me when I return. Should I go get my mantle?”
Duke Conrad was clearly taken aback by Jason’s vehemence.
“Furthermore,” Jason pressed, taking advantage of the shifting momentum, “I am a guest in your house. You invited me, which implies some equality between us, even if I had no title. Or do you consider your guests inferiors?”
Around the table eyes glared. Conrad searched for support. Count Dershan shrugged.
Conrad cleared his throat. “The weapon with which I dispatch you is of little consequence,” he said. “Choose.”
To his mild astonishment Jason had won the argument, leaving him unsure what weapon to select. He knew what he didn’t want. Conrad would hack him into lunch meat with swords or axes or any traditional armaments. What if they wrestled? Jason was bigger. Conrad probably knew moves that would take away the size advantage. Everyone was awaiting a response.
“Billiard balls,” Jason said.
“Billiard balls?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“I am unfamiliar with the tradition.”
“Among my people it’s a common practice,” Jason invented. “The combatants stand at opposite ends of a billiard table full of balls, then throw the balls at each other until one is dead.”
“How novel,” Conrad sniffed. “Very well. An absurd death for an absurd lordling.”
“Hold on. If I win, will I walk out of here untouched by your henchmen, free to leave with my insult to your honor settled?”
“This castle represents neutral ground,” Duke Conrad said. “Besides, no man may be compelled into a mortal duel twice in the same day.”
“How comforting. Tomorrow at dawn then?”
“At dawn in the billiard room. Count Dershan will serve as my second. Who will serve as yours?”
“I will,” Tark blurted, standing up. “And I will depart with Lord Jason when the conflict is resolved.”
Duke Conrad nodded briskly, eyes narrow. Those around the table sat openmouthed. Jason and Tark walked away together.
At the door, aware that all eyes were still on him, Jason paused to address a servant. “See that my meal is sent to my room.”
“Yes, milord,” the man replied.
“I prefer ‘Your Mightiness.’”
“Yes, Your Mightiness.”
“See to it, then.”
“Why billiard balls?” Tark asked. They stood in the topiary.
Jason shrugged. “Conrad would cut me to ribbons if I fought him with a sword. I can throw balls hard. Hopefully harder and better than he can.” He picked up a stone and chucked it at the hedge shaped like Conrad. It missed.
Tark pretended not to notice.
“Think you could swipe some billiard balls?” Jason asked.
“No problem.”
“Would you wake me up early? I want to have time to prepare.”
The sky was gray when Tark awakened Jason.
Before a big game, Jason often had trouble sleeping. Last night had been his worst such experience. No matter how he tried to calm himself, Jason had felt too wired to sleep. He had paced. He had done push-ups. He had tossed and turned in the huge bed. He doubted he had slept more than an hour when Tark woke him.
Eyes burning, mouth nasty, Jason got up and did several stretching exercises. Then he began pitching billiard balls a
t folded fur comforters propped against the wall until his arm felt limber. An errant throw shattered an ornate jade vase and sent flowers flying.
Not long afterward a knock came at the door. It was Count Dershan, clad in a dapper uniform.
Jason and Tark followed him downstairs. They brought their belongings so they could leave when the duel was over. They proceeded directly to the billiard room. A crowd of guests and servants stood outside the doors. The crowd parted to let the participants pass.
Jason noticed several people giving him encouraging looks. Was he really about to fight someone to the death? He had no choice! Conrad had forced the issue. The Word was worthless if he remained trapped in Harthenham his whole life. Maldor would never be stopped, and he would never get home.
Once they entered the room, Dershan closed the doors, shutting out the onlookers. Inside, Duke Conrad awaited, medals glinting on his uniform. The onyx billiard table had sixty balls spaced equally across its maroon felt surface.
“We have our witnesses,” Conrad said. In response to a gesture Dershan and Tark took their places against a far wall. “You are more familiar with this form of combat than I am. How do we begin?”
Jason flexed his fingers. He had been thinking about the reality that he might die. Conrad was an athletic man. Luck would play a large role in this showdown. Jason tried to remind himself that he could throw fastballs at over eighty miles per hour. Without training, nobody could throw that fast. This was not a hopeless contest like fencing. Despite the danger, he had a real chance of winning. “We stand at opposite ends of the table, no balls in our hands, and your man drops a handkerchief. When the handkerchief lands, we take up balls and throw them at will.”
Conrad nodded as if this met his expectations. “Shall we, then?” he asked, as if they were about to begin a game of checkers.
One thing Jason had to give Duke Conrad—he showed absolutely no fear. His nonchalance was unnerving.
Conrad and Jason took their places. Conrad stared coldly. Jason knew Conrad would kill him given the chance. But Jason hoped to end the contest without anybody dying. If he could hurt Conrad enough to get the upper hand, hopefully the duke would yield.
Jason felt sweaty. He rubbed his palms against his trousers. This was a different kind of nervous anticipation than he had ever experienced. No points would be tallied today. If he threw well he would live. If not, he would die. A strange tension hummed in his mind and body. His senses were in overdrive. The uneasiness he had sometimes felt before a ball game seemed ridiculous by contrast.
Dershan held a handkerchief aloft and let it fall. Jason hastily grabbed a ball in each hand. As a pitcher he had hit a batter once or twice, but now he would be trying to inflict serious injuries. Plus the batter would be throwing back.
As Jason released his first ball, Conrad’s first ball breezed past his ear. Conrad twisted in an attempt to avoid Jason’s first throw, but the ball struck him solidly, high in the back. Jason shifted the second ball to his right hand. It missed Conrad when he ducked. Jason lunged sideways in an attempt to dodge Conrad’s next throw, which glanced off his side, stinging but not stunning him. Jason hurriedly grasped for more balls.
In order to hamper Conrad’s ability to throw, Jason had hoped to bombard his arms, but in the heat of the moment it was difficult to aim with any precision. In unison they threw their next balls. Conrad’s went wild, missing by a few feet. Jason’s tagged the duke squarely on the collarbone. Jason threw another and barely missed the duke’s elbow. Conrad’s next throw was made awkward by his injury, but the ball hit Jason on the forearm, hurting plenty.
Jason snatched two more balls. Conrad fumbled as he reached for more. Jason remembered a trick he had used during water balloon fights. With his left hand he lobbed a yellow ball underhand fairly hard. It glanced off the high ceiling on its way toward Conrad, whose eyes followed it while he grasped for balls. Before the first ball fell, Jason whipped the second ball sidearm as hard as he could. It caromed off Conrad’s head, and the duke flopped to the floor.
Jason gasped. He had been aiming for the duke’s throwing arm, but Conrad had ducked right into the path of the throw. The ball had connected with so much force that Jason paused for a moment, grimacing in empathy. Tark noisily cleared his throat, and Jason hastily grabbed two more balls, holding them ready.
Except for his chest rising and falling, Conrad lay motionless.
Breathing hard, his arm and side stinging, Jason remained poised to throw. The duke stayed on the floor. Was he really unconscious? Could the duel be over?
Jason glanced at Dershan. “Is that good enough?”
Count Dershan looked pale. “Duke Conrad asked for no quarter. It is your right to ensure his demise.”
Jason wondered if Count Dershan coveted Conrad’s job. “I think I’ll take my chances. I was forced into this duel. I don’t want to kill Duke Conrad. What happens to him now is no longer any of my business.”
“As you wish,” Dershan acquiesced.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jason said shakily, sickened by the brutality but relieved to be standing and relatively uninjured.
“Right,” Tark grunted. “I’ve had my fill of Harthenham.”
“Farewell,” Dershan said. “I’ll have the drawbridge opened. You comprehend that your asylum ends once you pass without the castle walls.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Jason said.
He and Tark exited the billiard room. The crowd stared silently. Someone coughed.
“Any who want to join us are welcome,” Jason said. “You may not get another chance like this. Fair warning: Once outside the castle walls, we will probably be attacked.”
Everyone in the crowd found something to look at besides Jason. Except for a tall, heavyset man, his reddish-brown hair thinning on top. A longsword was strapped over his shoulder. “I’ll come.” Considering his size, his voice was pitched higher than Jason would have expected.
Jason had never particularly noticed the man. “We leave immediately.”
The big man hoisted a pack. “I am Tristan, son of Jarom. Once I held a noble title, though I forfeited it long ago.”
“Lord Jason of Caberton,” Jason said. “And Tark.”
“Of the Giddy Nine,” Tark explained.
Jason nodded. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 22
ESCAPE
Jason, Tark, and Tristan hurried to the front door, trailed by the crowd of bystanders. A pair of male servants flanked the door, standing at attention. The servants made no move to impede their departure. Once outside, Tristan drew his sword, and Tark produced his heavy knife. Jason unintentionally still clutched a billiard ball.
“Hold,” called a voice behind them. They turned. Drake came striding down the hall, wearing a long, plain coat and tall boots. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, and a sword was fastened around his waist. “I need to come with you.”
Jason smiled. “Please, join us.” His eyes swept the onlookers. “Anyone else? Last call.” A short, slim man with a narrow face met his gaze. Frowning slightly, he shook his head. Nobody else would look him in the eyes.
The four men trotted out under the portico, across the courtyard, and through the front gate over the lowered drawbridge. They abandoned the lane leading away from the castle and struck off at a loping pace across a field of alfalfa. The morning was cool. Low clouds hung in the sky. Dew from the alfalfa stalks dampened their trousers.
“What made you join us?” Jason asked Tristan.
“I was never proud of my decision to come here,” Tristan panted. “Seeing men with the courage to defy Duke Conrad and forgo the protection of the castle inspired me. I resolved yesterday that if you won your duel, I would go with you.”
“Glad to have you,” Jason said, a little worried that Tristan was getting out of breath so soon.
“You realize we are about to die,” Drake said.
“Probably,” Tristan agreed. “But this is a better way to go.”
>
Jason kept silent.
From behind, dogs began baying in an exuberant chorus. The four men looked back and saw nearly twenty eager mastiffs and boarhounds tearing after them, followed by a horseman.
“They don’t waste much time,” Jason muttered bitterly.
The four men broke into a sprint. Tristan discarded his pack. On the far side of the alfalfa field they vaulted a low wooden fence. Tark caught his foot on a post and went down hard, scrambling back up with the adrenalized vigor of a man about to become dog chow. The next field was a wide expanse of knee-high grass. Jason glanced back. The pack of fierce canines was already halfway across the alfalfa field. The man on horseback was now visible as Kimp, cantering along easily behind the dogs, a flanged mace in one hand.
Already Tristan was breathing in ragged gasps, his face red and sweat-glossed. His pace was beginning to flag. Jason slowed his pace to stay with him. Tristan angrily motioned him forward. “Go on,” he wheezed.
Drake had the lead. Tark raced with remarkable speed for such a compact man. Jason could barely keep up with them. He concentrated on his feet beating against the grassy ground, trying to lengthen his stride and make his legs pump faster. The yowling of the pursuing dogs was rising in intensity.
Jason already felt a stitch forming in his side, like a screw twisting inward. He rubbed at it. Tark was a couple of steps ahead, his short legs churning desperately.
Glancing back, Jason saw that Tristan had turned to face the approaching dogs, longsword clutched in two hands. The dogs were almost upon him.
Jason witnessed Tristan’s last stand in a strobe of backward glances.
Tristan slashing a leaping mastiff.
Tristan down on one knee, hacking at a boarhound, whines now mingling with the vigorous baying.
Tristan fighting to his feet, fists swinging wildly.
Tristan on the ground with dogs swarmed around him, gutting a mastiff with a dagger as a boarhound found his throat.
Jason stumbled and went sprawling on the dewy grass.
Tark skidded to a halt and yanked him up.