When he predicted that he’d be eliminated in the second or third round, Sligyn was not being modest but precisely describing his usual level of skill at mock combats with blunt blade and wicker shield. The rules were simple, but artificial enough to hamper a man like him, used to banging and hacking his way through a scrap. The contestants began at either end of the contest ground, approached and circled for position, then fenced and feinted until one or the other had either scored three touches or driven his opponent into the ribands that marked the ground. Although bruises were ignored, hitting hard enough to break his skin gave your opponent the victory. Holding back on anything had never been Sligyn’s style.
But Sligyn had no idea of how useful cold fury can be to a man. He won his first round easily, since it was against the clumsy Lord Cinvan, then went on to win the second as well. For the third, in a state of controlled bloodlust he took the field against the formidable Lord Gwion, who had royal trophy daggers won in Dun Deverry itself hanging over his hearth. When Sligyn beat him handily, everyone, including Sligyn, assumed that Gwion had been stupidly overconfident. There was no such excuse in the fourth, when he beat an equally skilled lord who also happened to be a close friend of Gwarryc’s. At that point the crowd began to grow uneasy. When the next batch of fourth-round contestants took the field, many spectators made no pretense of watching them; little clots of men formed to mutter among themselves and look Sligyn’s way every now and then with troubled eyes.
As for Sligyn, he felt as if his whole body had become a weapon in the hands of his righteous rage. While he waited for his turn at the fifth round, he drank cold water instead of ale and glared at Gwarryc, standing a good fifty yards from him in a press of followers. Yet, in spite of the distance, it seemed that Gwarryc was aware of him, because at intervals he would look up, and his eyes would search out Sligyn the way a tongue searches out a chipped tooth. Sligyn also noticed the pair of silver daggers, one blond, one dark enough to have some Bardek blood in his veins, watching him, but from their hard and indifferent faces it was hard to tell what they might have thought. Peredyr, on the other hand, who was by then acting as Sligyn’s second, bringing him damp rags to wipe his face and water by the flagonful, was beside himself with holy joy.
“Keep it up, man! I’ll pray to any god you want, just keep it up! Look at that bastard-born traitor’s face, wondering what’s wrong with his little womanly scheme! Gods, the vanity of the man!”
The words were more inspiring than the praise-song of the finest bard in the kingdom. On their tide Sligyn won the fifth round, and the sixth, until only the seventh lay between him and Gwarryc himself, who had made his expected easy progress through his rounds. Unfortunately, Sligyn’s opponent for this penultimate trial was Lord Retyc of Gaddbrwn, known throughout Eldidd for his finely tuned skill with a sword. When Sligyn marched out to face him, he was consoling himself by thinking that at least he’d given Gwarryc a good scare before his inevitable defeat. Most of Gwarryc’s supporters seemed to agree; they had all relaxed and stood smiling on the sidelines while their champion limbered his enormous frame by twirling the blunt blade round and round his head. But then the gods took a hand, or so every man in Eldidd saw it. Nevyn would later say that Sligyn’s supernormal rage was affecting the men around him, troubling their auras as well as their minds, but at the time, every onlooker there saw it as an omen, and that’s how the story spread.
When the contest began, Retyc strode toward Sligyn in confidence, but not overconfidence—he’d profited from Gwion’s painful lesson earlier. For a few moments they sparred, the blunt blades striking the wicker shields with an odd, squishy thwack. Out of sheer fury Sligyn managed to score one touch; then Retyc feinted in from the side, drew back, danced to the front—and scored two touches in quick succession. Yet, as he grinned in triumph, he dropped his guard ever so slightly, and Sligyn got his second touch, too. Even now in the count, they circled, feinting caudously from one side or the other, drawing back a little, trying to draw their opponent in, then closing again ever so delicately when the other refused to be drawn. Around and around, back and forth they went, and the length of the fight was beginning to tell on Sligyn, who was a good twelve years Retyc’s senior. He was puffing a little as he made a sharp stab—and Retyc slipped. His left foot simply shot out from under him, and down he went, flailing and cursing, to strike the ribands to his left and pull them down.
“Disqualified!” yelled the nearest judge, and though they hated to do it—you could see it in their faces—the other two judges also called out, “Disqualified! The winner is Lord Sligyn.”
With a whoop of joy Peredyr rushed out to take Sligyn’s sword and shield like a page. Sligyn could hear Peredyr’s men as well as his own cheering and calling for wagers as he walked off the field, and the two silver daggers had joined them to celebrate, too. It was between him and Gwarryc now. Except for Sligyn’s tiny faction, by then the entire mob of onlookers, lord and riders alike, were strangely silent, looking back and forth at Gwarryc and Sligyn and muttering old proverbs, all of which centered around the way the gods take a dim view of presumption on the part of men. At that point the judges announced a long delay, to allow both contestants to rest and the servants to smooth out the contest ground. No one doubted that the delay would also allow Gwarryc and his supporters to regroup and regain their confidence after Retyc’s god-touched defeat.
“Let’s go well into the trees,” Peredyr said to Sligyn. “Rest in the shade, and I’ll get you cold water from the stream.”
“My thanks. I’ll admit to needing a bit of rest. Hah! the bastards! Their own delay’s working against them, eh?”
When Sligyn sat down in the relative privacy of the ash grove, he realized that he ached all over, and that his wind was going fast. Weil, by the gods, you gave the bastard a turn, anyway, he told himself. Teach him to put on little shows like a blasted gerthddyn, eh? Then he saw the blond silver dagger strolling toward him, and his heart thudded once. Jill! He cursed himself, wondering how he could have been so blind as to not recognize her earlier. With a grin and a bellow of welcome, he started to get up, but she rushed over and knelt beside him.
“Not so loud, my lord! We’ve got a little surprise planned for our Gwarryc and his friends.”
“Oh, do you now?” With great difficulty Sligyn made himself speak softly. “Is he here?”
“He is, and I wonder if he could take your place in the final round.”
Sligyn stopped himself from howling with glee just in time.
“He may at that, by all the gods! Here, that other lad with you—didn’t recognize him, either. It’s not—”
“Na, na, na, just a friend. He’s with Blaen—and quite a lot of men, actually—hidden in the woods up the road. Gwin’s gone to fetch them.”
“Peredyr ought to go make some formal excuse to the contest judges, eh? Or do we just let our lord walk out there?”
“Oh, just let him walk out, I’d say. There’s no use mincing around. They’ll know soon enough that the dragon’s flown home. And Nevyn’s here, too, or rather, he and a friend of his are close by. They’re planning on keeping out of sight till the shouting’s over.”
“Probably for the best, though I don’t know, the old man can be pretty impressive when he wants. What about your father?”
“He’s here. He wouldn’t miss this if you offered him the High King’s throne.”
When Peredyr came back with the water, he nearly wept at the sight of Jill. Once he heard what was afoot, he trotted off to round up his men and Sligyn’s and bring them back down to the trees on the pretence of fetching more ale and food and the like. Now that he knew he wouldn’t be fighting, Sligyn could at last have a good foaming tankard of ale, and as he drank it, he was feeling that the gods were in their heavenly duns and showering justice upon the world.
The contest was further delayed when Blaen and a warband of fifty men and a couple of captains rode round the dun and dismounted, calling out friendly greet
ings and jests as they led their horses over and joined the tourney. Although Talidd was as happy to see them as a miller finding weevils in his flour, there was nothing the lord could do, since he had no desire to insult a gwerbret by barring him and his from an open tourney. Sligyn was anxiously looking over the crowd around Blaen and trying to see Rhodry when he felt a friendly hand on his shoulder and spun around. Wearing a battered old cloak Rhodry stood there, his head tossed a little back, his face burning with the half-mad berserker’s grin that Sligyn remembered so well. Right behind him was Cullyn of Cerrmor.
“Your Grace.” Sligyn suddenly found it hard to speak. “Your Grace.”
“Don’t kneel!” Rhodry grabbed his arm just in time. “Blaen’s keeping them distracted, and they haven’t seen me yet.”
“Right. Of course. Eh!” Sligyn grabbed a damp rag, blew his nose hard, and wiped his eyes on his shirt-sleeve before going on. “This’ll show the bastards, eh? What comes of all their cursed plotting and scheming.”
Since Blaen’s men all descended upon the food and drink at once and distracted everyone, no one did notice Rhodry, who kept well back in the trees among Sligyn and Peredyr’s riders. When the judges called for the contestants, Sligyn walked at the head of his pack with Rhodry in their midst. Gwarryc was already there, pacing back and forth at his end of the field. As Sligyn went toward his end, the judges came forward to inspect his sword and shield as the rules required. Sligyn handed them over with a little bow.
“My lords, someone else will be taking my place. I was only fighting as his champion, a thing you all know blasted well, whether your ugly weaseling hearts would admit it or not, and well, by the black ass of the Lord of Hell, here he is.”
The judges turned dead-white as Rhodry shoved his way through the pack and stepped up beside Sligyn to take the blunt sword and shield. He’d thrown off the cloak to reveal a shirt encrusted with embroidered dragons and interlace, and brigga in the blue-green-and-silver plaid of Aberwyn. Down at his end of the ground, Gwarryc paced in happy ignorance until Rhodry strode onto the field. There was a moment’s silence; then a mutter, a roar, of whispers, then talk, and finally cheers from Rhodry’s loyal men and from the prudent among his enemies, just as when a farmer’s earthen dam begins to crumble, with the water trickling through, until the flood bursts out at last and comes roaring down the streambed. Sligyn had a brief moment’s admiration for Gwarryc. With a proud toss of his head the lord strode to meet his enemy and saluted him with the blunt sword. The talk and the cheers died.
“Your Grace,” Gwarryc said. “Do you want to replace these with real steel?”
“I don’t, because you’ve done me no harm—not enough to warrant your death.” Rhodry brought his own blade up in salute. “And lest you think I’m only boasting, let’s have our contest, shall we?”
Deliberately and insolently Rhodry turned his back on the lord and strode off to his end of the contest ground, leaving Gwarryc with no choice but to do the same or be thought a coward forever. Licking nervous lips, the judges hovered, glancing at one another, until Sligyn could stand it no longer.
“Well, begin, for the sake of the gods! Don’t just stand there sniveling, eh? Begin!”
As the two combatants started walking toward the center, the crowd pressed close, sighing a little. Dropped to a fighting crouch, Gwarryc moved cautiously as he circled, but, even though his sword was at the ready, Rhodry merely turned in place to face him. Gwarryc hesitated briefly, then feinted to one side, back again, and in with a smart slap of his blade. Rhodry didn’t dodge so much as step away, smoothly, almost languidly. When Gwarryc spun round and charged, Rhodry was gone again, angling a few yards down the field and grinning when Gwarryc ran right past. Although he could easily have scored three touches and ended the match right there, he waited until Gwarryc caught his mistake and turned back. Like a fool Gwarryc went after him and repeated the whole little farce. By then the crowd was snickering.
“Curse you!” Gwarryc snarled. “Stand and fight!”
“Very well. Here I am.”
Rhodry lowered the point of his sword till it trailed lazily on the grass, tossed his shield some ten feet away, and smiled at him. Gwarryc looked this way and that with the scowl of a man who realizes he’s been set up as the butt of a joke just when there’s no escaping it.
“Well, come along,” Rhodry said. “You wanted a bit of sport with a helpless opponent, didn’t you? So make your strike.”
If Gwarryc had had the sense to throw his own shield and face him on even terms, he might have salvaged a bit of honor out of the situation, but instead, he merely charged, swinging hard at Rhodry’s unprotected side. Rhodry jumped back with a little leap that brought him round to Gwarryc’s flank as the enraged lord tried to stop his forward movement—too late. Rhodry slapped him three times on the buttocks, as if he were spanking a recalcitrant page. When the crowd burst out laughing, Gwarryc threw his sword and shield onto the ground, and strode off the field. In front of him the crowd parted, still laughing, and let him through. Although his own warband followed him, most of his erstwhile friends rushed forward to congratulate the winner.
“So much for their loyalty, eh?” Sligyn said to Peredyr.
“True spoken. Ah, this is a day to tell our grandsons about, sure enough!”
In the confusion men began milling about, shouting and laughing, or slinking away downcast. A lot of the recent recruits were trying to get close to the new gwerbret to speak with him, a few in sincere and obvious regret and humility, most with false bright smiles, as if they’d been hoping for his return all along. Rhodry himself was greeting everyone with great courtesy, smiling and nodding agreement even when it was plain they lied. Sligyn also saw Jill, standing off at the edge of the crowd and watching with a peculiarly melancholy smile. He worked his way through to join her.
“Oh, he’ll make a fine lord for Aberwyn,” Sligyn said. “Look at him, all diplomacy, eh? Good lad, good lad. And when will the wedding be, by the by?”
“Wedding?” Jill said with a start.
“Just that. Come now, we all know the lad’s going to marry you, eh? If Blaen hasn’t laid land and tide upon you, why, someone else will.”
“Oh. That wedding.” She looked idly away. “You’re right enough about Blaen. I’ve got land of my own in Cwm Peel now, a wilderness, he tells me, but it’ll serve.”
“So, you’re Lady Gilyan, eh?” Sligyn gave her a friendly slap on the back. “Good, good. We’ll have a splendid feast when the happy day comes, eh?”
Jill smiled, but her melancholy was almost palpable, as if she stood in a darker light. By then the crowd around the gwerbret was breaking up; the truly loyal warbands had gone to fetch their horses, the flatterers were slinking away. Not far from Rhodry stood Cullyn, listening as Blaen, goblet in hand, talked on and on about something, and the silver dagger Jill had called Gwin was standing just behind Rhodry himself. Down at the tables frightened servants were hurriedly clearing away the food and drink under Talidd’s supervision. Although there was no sign of Gwarryc or his warband, some of his supporters were hovering around—trying to put a good face on things, Sligyn supposed. Among them was the Bardek man called Alyan, sipping a tankard of ale and smiling in a dazed way, as if he still couldn’t believe what had happened to his employer’s cause. He finished the last of his drink, then strolled off toward the busy servants, the tankard dangling in one hand, as if he wanted one last refill before the barrels were rolled away. When he reached the gathering around the new gwerbret, he paused as if listening, then dropped the tankard and moved.
Jill suddenly swore and ran toward the clot of men just as someone yelled an alarm. Frozen by surprise, Sligyn saw Rhodry twist around barely in time as steel flashed beside him and the shouting rang out all round. Like dweomer Alyan had produced a dagger, and he was striking down as Rhodry flung up an arm to protect himself.
“Ware!” Gwin leapt in between assassin and lord.
The dagger struck in
to Gwin’s shoulder, and the bright blood ran as Gwin grabbed his enemy’s hair with one hand and shoved the other hard under his chin. There was a crack, a sickening crack like a stick breaking under a boot. Alyan slumped dead as Gwin flung him to the ground. Sligyn was never sure when he’d started running; all at once he was pushing his way through the gathering crowd to reach Rhodry’s side just as the gwerbret caught Gwin by the arm and steadied him.
“It’s not much of a cut, Your Grace,” Gwin said.
“Better get a chirurgeon anyway, eh?” Sligyn rumbled. “Where’s that blasted Talidd? Curse the man—he’s not much of host, eh?”
And Sligyn was honestly surprised when everyone burst out laughing.
It was well into the evaening watch by the time that Rhodry and his retinue came back to Lord Edar’s dun. Nevyn lingered in the great hall just long enough to hear that the would-be rebels had been properly shamed; then he insisted that Gwin come up to his chamber and have his wound treated. Jill came along, too—she’d done a clumsy but serviceable job of binding the wound earlier—and cut fresh bandages while he washed it out and stitched it up. Painful though the procedure must have been, not a muscle of Gwin’s face moved during it. Nevyn sent him back to the great hall with orders to drink a couple of goblets of mead, then helped Jill as she cleaned up.
“You look sad, child. I would have thought you’d be dancing in glee tonight.”
“Well, I’m happy enough for Rhodry’s sake.”
“Not your own? Come now, soon you’ll have a splendid wedding, and you’ll be the most powerful woman in all Eldidd.”
“Everyone keeps talking about my rotten wedding. Do you realize that Rhodry never even asked me to marry him? He just assumed that I was going to, and so does everyone, and you and Blaen are the worst of the bad lot, and I don’t want to be the wretched most powerful woman in all anywhere, curse you all!”
For a moment he thought she was about to cry, but instead she merely stood there openmouthed and shocked at her own outburst. Nevyn himself was so surprised that it took him a moment to find something to say.