‘There are things I love about him.’ Best stomach she’d ever seen, for instance. ‘There are things I don’t.’ Biggest head she’d ever known, for instance.
‘You can hate things about a person and still love ’em. Ain’t easy, watching someone you love walk into the Circle.’
Rikke bunched her fists until the nails bit at her palms. ‘Helps if you hate the other bastard more.’
The noise started to fade as Isern-i-Phail stepped out onto the short-shaved grass, chewing slowly with her tall spear in her hand. When all that remained was a nervy silence, she wedged her chagga down behind her lip with her tongue.
‘I’m Isern-i-Phail! My da, Crummock-i-Phail, judged the fight between Fenris the Feared and the Bloody-Nine. He was a well-known bastard.’ Some laughter and hoots of agreement. ‘But he was well known! And being a hillman, the closest thing to a neutral party anyone could find. I am as well known as he.’ And she lifted her chin and gestured at herself. ‘But for my piercing wits and haunting beauty.’ More laughter. ‘Seems it’s fallen to me as a hillwoman to judge this bout.’ She grinned over at Stour. ‘Though I should declare up front that I hate this cunt over here, and might yet be prevailed upon to kill him myself.’
The laughter only made Rikke more nervous.
‘Have to admire your honesty,’ said Stour.
‘I couldn’t give a moth’s cock what you admire, but the judging of a duel is a sacred trust and so on and bloody so on, and you can trust me to judge this one fairly, I’m sure.’
‘Wouldn’t worry,’ said Stour. ‘Me standing over his corpse won’t need much judging. You say start. I’ll handle the rest.’
‘Whoa there, boy!’ shouted Isern. ‘The moon loves a proper order to things, and there’s the introductions, stakes and choice o’ weapons to see to. Don’t worry, I’ll waste no time inflating your bloated names any more than I have to. Over here on my …’ She thought for a moment, frowned at Leo, frowned at her hands, frowned at the sky, then snapped her fingers. ‘Left! On my left, we’ve got Leo dan Brock, son of Finree dan Brock, newly minted Lord Governor of Angland, who men call the Young Lion on account of his youth and heroic opinion of himself. If he’s as skilful as he’s pretty, we’ll have quite the fight.’ She pointed her spear at Stour. ‘Which means this article must be on my right and it’s Stour Nightfall, d’you see, son of Black Calder and heir to the chain of Bethod, that men call the Great Wolf ’cause of, who can say, the hairiest arse in the North, for all I know. He beat Stranger-Come-Knocking in the Circle but we’re all aware the man was way past his best. Good enough?’
Leo said nothing, eyes fixed on Stour like they were alone in the Circle.
Stour shrugged, still smiling. ‘Good enough.’
‘Bastard, bastard, fucking bastard,’ Rikke hissed through tight lips. She was biting on her chagga pellet so hard, her whole face was aching, willing her guts to turn sickly, and her eye to turn hot, and some ghost of the future to show itself. But nothing came.
‘Your next question!’ called Isern. ‘What are these two fools going to kill each other over? Mostly a matter of manly pride, as is proper in a duel, but there’s also the rich, dark earth o’ the North. The winner takes the patch of it men call the Protectorate, which stretches from the Whiteflow to the Cusk and includes the city of Uffrith. Stour Nightfall wins, it belongs to King Scale. Leo dan Brock wins, it stays with the Dogman in the loving embrace o’ the Union. All happy with the terms?’
A quiet then. No one on Rikke’s side looked too happy about anything.
‘Dogman, Chieftain of Uffrith?’ called Isern.
‘Aye,’ said Rikke’s father, wearily.
‘Brock, Lord Governor of Angland?’
‘Aye,’ snapped Leo.
‘Scale Ironhand, King of the Northmen?’
‘Aye,’ rumbled Scale, jowls quivering as he smothered a burp, like this was the third duel he’d watched that day. ‘Get to it, woman.’
‘Then I will, you hill of lard.’ Isern thrust her spear into the ground with a thud and snapped her fingers at Shivers. ‘Lend me your shield, handsome.’ He glanced over his shoulder like he thought she might be talking to someone else, then tossed it to her. She snatched it from the air, set it down on its rim. ‘Straps or paint, Brock?’ Though Shivers’ shield was so battered, only a few stubborn flakes of paint still clung to it.
‘Paint,’ said Leo. Isern set the shield spinning, and men started shouting and whooping and calling, and beside her, Rikke felt Lady Finree give a kind of gasp, and she covered her eyes with her hands.
‘He’ll win,’ said Rikke.
‘How can you know?’
Rikke took her cold, limp hand and squeezed it. ‘He’ll win,’ she said, making it sound like a sure fact, for all her head was splitting with doubts.
Maybe she could’ve talked him out of it. But it was too late now.
There was a rattle as the shield fell.
‘Straps down,’ said Isern. ‘Your pick, Great Wolf.’
Stour caught Rikke’s eye and shrugged, more careless than ever, like the notion of losing had never even occurred. ‘He can pick.’
‘Your pick, Young Lion.’
Leo shook his head. ‘He can pick.’
‘Men!’ And Isern rolled her eyes. ‘They never can commit. You’ll fight with what you brought, then.’ She tossed the shield back to Shivers, plucked her spear from the ground and pointed it at the men about the Circle, shields all facing inwards now, rims grating as they locked them together into a wall. ‘You lot, keep these two in here till it’s settled. And no more interfering than is seemly.’ She spat chagga juice, wiped her chin and nodded, like it was all set up to her satisfaction. ‘Let’s get to it.’
Where Names Are Made
Leo once heard someone say attack is the best defence. Couldn’t remember who, but it struck him as a bold philosophy. Words to live by. So his plan was to be the whirlwind. Give Stour no breath, no space, no chance to think. Leo would overwhelm that smirking bastard, put him in the mud and look forward to feasts in his honour and songs of his prowess.
But plans often crumble when swords are swung at them, and Leo’s lasted no longer than it took Isern-i-Phail to screech, ‘Fight!’
Stour came at him so shockingly fast, Leo had to twist his opening thrust into a clumsy parry, forced onto the back foot by a raking cut that jarred Barniva’s sword in his hand.
A flash of Stour’s grin and a flicker of bright steel and Leo stumbled back again, parrying, dodging, parrying, the quick scrape and clatter of their blades almost lost in the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. He only just ducked a wicked cut that could’ve taken his head right off, but Stour gave him no clumsy backswing to work with, stepped scornfully away from Leo’s counter and pressed in again.
Seemed Stour had heard that thing about attack and defence, too. But he was better at it.
‘Kill him!’ screeched Antaup.
‘Come on!’ shouted Jurand.
‘Leo!’ roared Glaward, shaking his shield. But Stour was already on him again, three cuts so quick, Leo only dodged the first two by the barest instinct. He reeled away from the third, fishing with his sword in a weak effort to keep his opponent back. Stour was the whirlwind. Leo was the leaf blown around the Circle.
The speed of him. He used a heavy Northman’s sword – broad blade, solid crosspiece, weighty golden pommel – but he handled it nimbly as a Styrian rapier. Almost no backswing. Almost no recovery. Intentions masterfully disguised.
Apart from Bremer dan Gorst, who’d a fair claim to being the greatest swordsman of the age, Leo never saw a blade handled with such savage skill. He felt the doubt creeping cold up his spine. He was used to being swaddled in a blanket of self-confidence, and the chill as it was stripped away was all the worse for being unfamiliar.