“When the Verenthanes came to Lenayin, they brought civilisation. Before that, we were a rabble. But King Soros brought the faith, and made us one. Now, we shall grow stronger still.”
“Or it shall turn us into anath alyn like them. I would rather see Lenayin destroyed. Should we choose such a fate, we would deserve it.”
“Dammit, man, will you not listen to reason?”
“That man's cousin raped my sister!” Markan roared. “I am Isfayen, and you have no idea how restrained I have been to this point! No longer!”
“You want to leave?” Koenyg shouted. “Then go! It seems it was too much to suppose that Lenayin could arrive at civilisation through foresight and wisdom! You Isfayen have always had to have civilisation beaten into you, and if it has to be that way again, so be it!”
Markan took out his huge, curved sword, and answering swords came out from all surrounding. But Markan handed the sword to Koenyg.
“In avoiding one dishonour, I invoke another,” he declared. “I have forfeited the honour of my father's word to your father, from the Great Lord of Isfayen to the King of Lenayin. For that, you may take my life, should you choose.”
“Do it,” someone muttered.
Koenyg looked distastefully at Markan's blade. “If I take your life, Lord Markan, it shall be on the field of battle. Like the Isfayen, I see little honour in killing a man who will not fight back.”
Markan nodded and sheathed his blade. “So shall it be.”
“You would fight against the Army of Lenayin?” Koenyg asked, disbelievingly. “Why not simply return to Lenayin?”
“The Isfayen do not run from a fight. This is a contest of honour and must be decided. We leave because one side of honour has been proven weak. The other must therefore be superior. The Isfayen are for the superior side of honour. We shall stay and see the matter resolved.”
Besides which, Damon thought, if the Isfayen left, the trickle of desertions would truly become a flood. They would not be fighting the Army of Lenayin. The Army of Lenayin would be fighting Koenyg, these lords, and the northerners.
“My Lord King,” shouted a noble, “we cannot simply let them leave! We have them surrounded!”
“You do indeed,” said Markan, a gleam in his eye. “You would offer us a fate more glorious than any Isfayen before us. Outnumbered, surrounded by old foes, fighting to the last man. We will take at least half of you with us, and the Isfayen shall sing of us for centuries yet untold.”
“There will be no attack,” said Koenyg. “These matters shall be decided on the field of battle.”
Markan nodded and strode back to his horse. He mounted, and with Isfayen riders at his back, he galloped upslope, toward his people's place in the column. As he passed Damon, he gave him a long, hard look.
Koenyg saw. “Have you something to say, brother?” he demanded, striding to Damon's horse. Damon stared at him. Koenyg saw that too. He knew his brother that well, at least.
Koenyg grabbed Damon's arm and yanked him powerfully from the saddle. Damon leaped clear rather than hit the ground head first, and crashed to a knee. Koenyg seized a fist full of jacket over Damon's mail, his face contorted with fury.
“Sasha tears the Army of Lenayin apart, and you sympathise with her?” he shouted.
“You tear the Army of Lenayin apart!” Damon retorted. He tried to prise free of Koenyg's grip, but his elder brother was too strong. “The men of Lenayin cannot be led against their will! The Northern Rebellion proved that, but you never learned that lesson….”
Koenyg threw Damon to the ground, and landed a kick in his mailed side as Damon rolled away. “She is a traitor to Lenayin! I'll see her dead, I swear it, and I'll see you dead if you defy me!”
Damon tried to get up, but a blow struck his head. He fell, arms up for protection, and a kick struck his leg. He'd been beaten by Koenyg before, and was not surprised. Koenyg had far more tolerance for defiance from foreigners and others than he did from younger brothers.
The blows stopped. Damon looked up past raised arms at the seething king standing over him. “Look at you!” Koenyg exclaimed, before the audience of lords. “You're pathetic! You plot and mutter behind my back, you make better friends with your sisters than with me or Myklas, you spend so long with your head in girlish pursuits it's a wonder you don't wear a dress over your mail! And now, you fall on your arse and cower like a whipped dog! You're a coward, and I have no use for you as my brother!”
He turned and strode back to his horse. Damon blinked, sitting on the grass by the road. And he realised that for once, his brother was actually right. And that death would be better.
Damon leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and charged. Lords yelled warning, and Koenyg spun, blade raised in defence. Damon struck full force, and struck to kill. Koenyg retreated, fending fast, steel clashing in rapid succession. Damon saw the astonishment on his face, and the concern, to find himself nearly overwhelmed.
Koenyg reversed one hard parry and leaped upslope. Damon cut low, was blocked by the downward slam of Koenyg's blade, which reversed toward Damon's head, but Damon parried hard and cut for Koenyg's neck. Koenyg swayed aside and cut low, in that easy, balanced style Damon had seen so often in sparring, as his rhythm recovered. And he knew that the surprise was ending, and now he was in trouble.
He tried to finish it fast, before Koenyg could truly get into rhythm, but each of his strikes was blocked with increasing surety. In the blink of an eye, Damon realised he'd fallen a fraction behind in the count. Koenyg came at him quickly, one side, the other, then a fast reverse, and Damon's parrys were a little later each time. In desperation he broke the rhythm entirely and struck a glancing blow on Koenyg's arm, but the next blow crushed Damon's defence, and the last tore into his ribs.
The mail saved him, but he fell all the same, with searing pain in his side. He struggled to rise, to raise his blade once more, but Koenyg swatted it aside, and stood on his sword arm. Damon lay back, and stared up the length of Koenyg's sword as the point pressed to his throat. His brother's eyes were ablaze, even as his arm seemed hurt.
“Attack from behind, eh?” Koenyg asked, breathing hard. “Most dishonourable, little brother.”
“It's the best way to kill a cockroach,” said Damon, also gasping. “They're hard vermin to face, because you have to come down to their level.” He was amazed at how calm his voice was, despite his lack of air. It was as though the barrier of fear had finally snapped. He'd stood up to Koenyg now. He could die happy.
“I should kill you now,” Koenyg snarled.
“I never doubted you would, one day.”
“I never did you wrong, little brother.”
Damon laughed. Suddenly, he couldn't stop laughing. It was insane-he and Koenyg had tried to kill each other, Koenyg was about to finish it, and he'd never been so amused.
“Look at you,” he said, between gasps of breath. “My big brother, trying to reason. It's like watching a bull trying to use an abacus.” Koenyg's face darkened. It had been a favourite line of Sofy's, when Koenyg couldn't hear. “Kessligh always said the rulership of kings would never last. Three generations, he said. You can start with a good king, like Great-Grandpa Soros. And he has a good son, like Grandpa Chayden. But by the time father wears the crown, the vitality is already fading…”
“You say nothing about our father!” Koenyg yelled.
“…and by the time it gets to you, it's gone entirely. Three generations, Kessligh said. A century at most. Krystoff was his attempt to prolong it, but Krystoff died, and now you prove Kessligh right.”
“I am tired of your lofty wisdom!”
“I know-that's why you resorted to beatings when you could never match it.” Koenyg moved the sword point aside. He kicked Damon's sword away. Damon raised himself on an arm. “You're a tyrant, Koenyg. You ally us with tyrants because they appeal to you.”