Engle reached up and poked at the curtain to part a small hole where he could peak through to the other side and watch as soldier after soldier pushed his way into The Harpy. His hands itched every time they came into contact with the undyed wool and turn bright red over his freshly healed burns. He had spent the several days hiding in Delilah’s back room with nothing but an ale splattered bloodstained cloth separating him from the rest of her patrons. Yet he learned that with her and Simon defending the worn partition, it was a good as any oak door.
The burning farm Engle encountered was only the first of many. They were not random victims-nor did he believe that the attacks would continue to be confined to the Andronian border. What was happening would sure to spread like a cancer. These were not the typical raiders. He had seen enough purses laden with gold nailed to doorposts to know that no bribe could sate their blood thirst-on the contrary it seemed only to incense their rage. They cut a swath of violence across wetlands and deep into Drake where he eventually lost their trail. Engle came back to Traimiss because he realized if he was going to have any hope of stopping the raids it would take the strength of the Lisseon army. He hoped, rather than believed, William would look at the desperateness of the situation and overlook his transgression for the greater good.
The fact that there had been an attack on Great Road and only days before King Waldhar’s caravan crossed it, would certainly lend weight to Engle’s warning and defend his bold return. As storming the castle gates was not a plausible way to gain an audience, he had been waiting at The Harpy until either Stephen or Daven showed up. Delilah and her obliging girls had filled him in on all of the gossip in town-who was married, who was pregnant, who was pregnant and unmarried that they were now determined to torment. It was everything Engle did not need to know with a smattering of what he did.
Engle slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes. He did not know how long he dozed there but his senses jarred him awake at a grumbling protest from Simon. Engle looked through the curtain in time to see Daven toss his purse across the room. His eyes followed the money to Delilah’s hand. She shook his direction and winked.
Daven looked taller than he remembered. In the endless drivel that Delilah’s girls had shared was also the story of what had happened between Daven and Byron. Byron entered The Harpy only an hour before. Engle pulled at the hole until he could see where Byron was sitting. His return to duty was reportedly premature but there were no doubts about the man’s determination. Engle remembered him as an undisciplined fighter for all his stony silence. He learned control it in time, nevertheless the incident at the games was not unforeseeable. Engle had warned many young men to temper their strikes when facing him. Daven was no exception. He was gifted but untried in battle. He could hardly be expected to match Byron, a seasoned soldier. He lacked his cruelty and his rage. The match ought not to have happened.
Engle watched Daven slam down one stein and tip back another. The arrangement was that Delilah would think up some pretense to draw Daven behind the curtain, where Engle would have time to tell his story. If Daven maintained his current pace he would useless inside of a half an hour. It was going to be a very long afternoon. Engle leaned back and closed his eyes. At least he could catch up on his sleep.
“Wake up!”
Engle started, knocking his head against the wall. Delilah kicked the bench for good measure. The curtain was wide open. Engle turned his head quickly.
“You won’t want to be missing this.” Delilah barked. Her body was the only thing shielding him from plain view.
“You needn’t bother. There’s no one here to see you. He’s emptied the place.”
Engle’s first thought was that Daven had challenged Byron again. He threw on his cloak and drew the hood low over his eyes. Delilah grabbed him by the hand and led him outside.
The sun was a blistering white light compared to the dimness of The Harpy. They skirted the edge of a cheering mob. He had trouble keeping up as he was whipped into bystanders and pulled through openings in the crowd that closed before he reached them. He mumbled apologies. She whirled him in and around people, releasing his hand with the same abruptness so that he nearly toppled over four villagers standing at the crowd’s perimeter. His awe of her brutal strength was quickly forgotten as he raised his eyes to the entertainment. His hand fell to his sword as anger blazed up into his chest.
The boy could not be more than nine or ten though it was possible he might have been as old as twelve if his impoverished circumstances were long standing. A young page or squire would have been equally inexcusable as an opponent but at least there they might have had some training. Engle forgot all about caution and charged ahead. Delilah was faster and threw her arms around his waist to prevent him. Again he her strength surprised him.
“Think of why you are here.” She warned.
Engle stopped. He hated her for being right.
"Have you reached your decision?" Daven slurred, looming heavily to one side as he tried not to look as stinking drunk as he was.
“How much has he had to drink?” Engle hissed.
Delilah shrugged. “At least five or six.”
“You were supposed to keep him sober enough to be useful to me.” Engle growled back.
“Humph.” She grunted back at him. “He’d have been sober enough in the morning for you to talk him. No one would have questioned Simon for dragging him in the back room to sleep it off. Neatly done. Just like we agreed.”
Her comment angered him but he was too focused on what was happening to challenge her. Engle raised his hand to show he would wait. He left her and pushed his way through the crowd. He watched with begrudging admiration as the boy squared his shoulders, jutted out his chin and jerked his head at Daven.
"Sire I beg you..." pleaded a voice just behind him. Engle recognized the voice as Captain Williams’. Williams was one of the few officers not afraid of Daven and Engle felt a glimmer of hope that this would be the end of the matter. He tugged his cloak a little tighter around his chin.
“The king and he subjects commend you, my dwarf knight!" Daven made an exaggerated bow in the direction of the boy but his eyes never left the crowd. “Now, time for you to get your hands on a proper weapon.”
The villagers laughed and applauded, ignorant chattel. Daven stepped up to Williams and held out his hand for his sword. A smile played upon his lips but his eyes were stone cold. Williams gave over his sword and said something in a low voice Engle could not quite make out.
"Tell me do you really suppose you can win?" Daven called over to the boy, still standing toe to toe with Williams.
"I can always use ten in gold," was the firm reply.
Daven smiled and Engle thought he saw a twinge of genuine admiration touch his eyes. The feeling was not enough for him to stop the contest. He handed the boy William’s sword.
"I suppose you can handle steel reasonably well."
Engle had seen enough. He started forward, but someone suddenly wrapped their arms around his waist. Engle spun around furiously to see Delilah.
“If you meant for me to do nothing then why bring me out here to witness it.” He shoved her away but her grip was like iron.
“Think what you’re doing.” She whispered hastily. “I have no mind to lose my head over you. Nor do I think you spent the better part of the week camping in my back room waiting to talk to him only to give yourself away for that scrap. Let him finish his business here and we will grab him afterwards.”
Engle knew she was both wrong and right. He could not formulate an argument one way or another. Hundreds if not thousands of lives depended on him getting his message through to the king and Daven was his best chance for that. Engle let Delilah drag him into the crowd.
In the meantime the boy had taken William’s sword. He held it both hands and raised it shakily over his shoulders. It was foolish to think he had any chance, yet Engle believed in him.
The boy swung his hips awkwardly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to find his balance. The sword wobbled and wavered until his settled into his grip. Daven let him take his practice swings. A nod from the boy signaled he was ready, as if he had been fighting in contests all his life. Lieutenant Roberts stepped forward to judge the game. He waved them forward until they faced each other across an imaginary line. They held their swords forward waiting for his signal. Roberts nodded first to Daven then to the boy. Roberts seemed to hesitate as he looked at the boy. Daven was shaking his head like a swimmer trying to knock water out of their ears. Engle knew that the weight of his sword in his hand was more apt to awakening his deadly skill. But no amount of head shaking could awaken reason out of drunkenness.
Daven made two large passes several feet clear of the boy. The gestures were exaggerated, intended to push the boy back and absolutely under control. The crowd gasped at the effect and the boy took several steps backward. Daven winked, presumably at Williams. Then he held his arms wide open inviting an attack. The boy made a few ill-guided strikes that Daven dodged easily. The boy had spirit but little control. The mob laughed and cheered. Daven jumped about in mock horror and fear of the boy's unsteady sword. His insolence angered Engle even more. Delilah kept a firm hand on his arm.
The boy lost his balance, stumbled and rallied. He kept swinging but was breathing too heavy to sustain more than a few minutes of fighting. The weight of William’s sword was too much. Daven toyed with the child, hopping briefly into striking distance and then moving out of range before the boy could raise his weapon higher than his waist. As the boy’s blows slowed and drooped. Daven stepped forward and made a playful jab that came very close to striking flesh. The boy dropped his sword and jumped back. The sword tangled his feet but he regained and kept himself out of the dirt. The crowd laughed. The boy turned scarlet.
Daven let him pick up his sword. Clearly he had done just what he intended.
Engle plucked off Delilah’s fingers: “Let go of me woman!”
“You want to stop this.”
Engle spun on her angrily.
“You’ll not be meeting with yon prince I’ll wager.” She drew her hand back and opened her palm. “I don’t suppose you came without some proof of your story. Trust me to get the message to the king. Then you can stop this farce in any way you see fit.”
Engle had with him the coin the burned woman had given him. That was his proof to the king and possibly his way back into favor. He did not want to give it to her but what choice did he have?
As Engle fumbled for the coin, the boy was driven back into a corner. He lost his sword again as he twisted away from Daven’s clumsy advance. Daven gestured for him to pick it up. Engle know what was coming next. As the boy bent down, Daven planted his foot squarely in his bottom and his face planted squarely in the dirt. All his worldly treasures flew from his tattered pockets and scattered on the street. As he clamored to his feet he snagged the leather string around his neck and a small pouch landed on the ground. Howling laughter accompanied his humiliation.
"First rule never turn your back on your opponent." Daven counseled smugly.
Engle only had eyes for the boy. He scrambled to his feet and spit out a mouthful of dirt. He squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. With one hand, suddenly strengthened by rage, he clasped his sword as he wiped his cheek with the back of the other. Engle held his breath. The boy struck back at the prince with all his might. He was not sure if the boy made contact until he saw that Daven had stopped his gloating mid bow. A narrow red track suddenly appeared on the back of Daven’s hand revealing flesh beneath skin. A thin string of red beads dripped down onto the hilt of his sword and stained the blade. Engle knew what was coming next. With a lightening reflex and a flick of his wrist, Daven responded by knocking the boy’s sword from his hand. It was a blind strike, passionless reflex born from years of practice and constant drilling under Engle’s supervision. The boy’s sword fell to the ground with a sickening clatter.
His blood flowed generously on the ground and red puddle formed at his feet. The boy gaped and his wriggled his fingers. Engle expected them to fall to the ground next to his sword. They did not. Daven moved toward the boy, holding his sword level to Tim’s throat.
"I ought to kill you where you stand," his voice scarcely rose above a whisper.
“Enough!” Engle cried. He tossed his precious proof to Delilah and charged through the crowd. “Tell the king to look to his southern border.” He instructed over the noise of the crowd as she fell behind. "I believe you owe this boy ten in gold." Engle said Daven as he maneuvered behind him.
"Engle," Daven exhaled. He lowered his weapon and slowly turned round.
Engle removed his hood with a slight inclination of his head. "Sire, You have not forgotten me. That is touching." He looked past Daven to make sure the boy was still standing. By some miracle it appeared that he had retained all of his fingers and was far luckier than Byron in that respect. Engle brushed roughly past Daven making certain that the contact was enough to knock Daven back a step. He caught Williams’ sword with the toe of his boot and spun back toward its owner. "You have an account to settle with this young gentleman, am I correct?" Engle glanced back at Daven. He did not protest and obediently took the money from his belt and tossed it at the boy.
“That should settle my account.” He returned hoarsely.
"I am glad to see you are putting your skills to such a good use." Engle fingers itched for Daven turn his blade on him. He knelt down and helped the boy pick up his money and his scattered possessions. He pocketed a small leather pouch whose precious contents had burst forth. Engle scooped several the pale blue stones and slipped them into his pocket. All the while he counted the passing seconds until Daven spoke again.
“He has all his fingers. Is that mercy or was it your intention to take his hand as well?” Engle observed, breaking the silence. The crowd was still all around them but had moved back a considerable distance.
Daven gave a ragged laugh. "Should I feel grateful upon receiving reproof from a man of such distinguished honor and wit? That you would risk your life and my father’s anger to come all this way to council me?”
“I cannot vouch for my honor or my wit. You must judge for yourself.” Engle stretched his lips in forced a smile and he met Daven’s gaze evenly. He gently pushed the boy behind and let his fingers play loosely over his sword.
Daven’s face spoke in volumes that his voice never found. His eyes were bloodshot from more than just Delilah’s ale. Engle could see that he had not been sleeping well if at all. His complexion was pale beneath the flush of his humiliation. Daven could say nothing. Engle did not know what possible defense he could make of his actions. After a long silence he shrugged.
Engle took the boy’s hand to lead him away from the crowd.
"Is that the final word from the man who repaid my father's generosity by seducing his queen? Or did she refuse you? Is her virtue still intact?"
Daven struck just as Engle turned to face him. Engle fixed his eyes on Daven’s face and did not blink. The blow fell short, fanning the skin at his throat. Daven held it just shy of contact.
“Why stop when there is so much more for you yet to shame.” Engle replied, pushing the boy behind him.
“Defend yourself. Let us see how well the pupil has learned from his master. I will bathe my sword in your blood!" Daven voice grew louder with each word until he sprayed the ground with his tears and saliva.
Engle fought the instincts he had spent a lifetime honing to keep his hands loose at his side. His brain calculated a dozen different ways to cut the prince down, his hands recalled several others. He would sooner cut-off his arm, rather than act on any one of them.
"Are you so eager to die?” He asked.
Daven was silent yet his brow struggled against betraying anything but rage. He took several shallow breaths until his complexion was no longer purple, only red.
“Do you seek greater reproof?” Engle persevered. “I will give you what you so eagerly seek.” He stepped forward so that Daven’s blade grazed his throat. “If it pleases your soul and your drunkenness, strike me down. I will not oppose you and my honor will not suffer the consequence for it.”
“Raise your sword.” Daven implored him.
“Know this. By my oath to your father and for the sake of the honor of she-whom you have chosen to so publicly besmirch-I should strike you where you stand. I would kill you. It is for her sake and hers alone that I leave you the spoil of your life. Such as it is, it means more to her than the shame of a hundred of such remarks. I’ll not raise my hand to you, even to save my life.” He loosed his sword and tossed it aside. “Do as you will.” He slowly moved back and opened his arms wide. “See if my blood it can reclaim your words."
Daven adjusted his grip but his sword shook more violently with each passing moment. At last he lowered his weapon and let his head drop forward as if too heavy to bear.
Engle turned from one boy to the other. “Come. You must let take care of that for you,” Engle gestured to his injured hand. The young boy nodded in agreement and then retrieved Engle’s sword for him.
Daven kept his head down staring at the cut on his hand, the blood as dripped over his knuckles to form a small stain on the ground. Engle wondered if he noticed how similar the two pools of blood were or if that would make the slightest difference to him now.
“My Lord, I take my leave.” Engle delivered a curt bow. He could not speak with composure.
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