Yeah, I was expecting that.

I made as if perplexed to see the rotund form of Lord Greybridge pushing his way past the indignant spectators in an effort to get to the arena floor and stalk to the center. His face was nearly as red as Redforne's had been, and he was spluttering with rage as he stomped his way to the main dueling circle, stopping a few feet away from me.

“Lord Greybridge,” I began. “Are you alright? What could possibly be the-”

“You, Tucat,” he said accusingly, pointing a chubby finger directly at my nose, “told me – assured me – that you would be dueling on my behalf this day. I will not accept anything less! You came within a hairs breadth of insulting my honor yourself, and fighting this duel for me is compensation for that! We agreed on that!”

“Did we?” I asked, a sardonic eyebrow raised.

“Yes!” he spat, “We did!”

I tried again.

“Did we, Lord Greybridge? Is that exactly what we had agreed to?” I raised my eyebrow again and gave him a dubious 'I think not' sort of look.

“Why,” he asked through clenched teeth, “do you insist on asking the same question over and over? Yes! That's precisely what we agreed to!”

Okay, maybe he missed the whole point with the eyebrow thing. Perhaps I'd been giving him entirely too much credit over the years.

“What I recall of our conversation, Lord Greybridge, is that I agreed to take over all responsibility for the duel on your behalf. Surely one can do that without fighting the duel themselves, wouldn't you agree?”

“I-” Greybridge paused, as if attempting to recall that conversation.

“I mean, what if I had suffered some sort of injury right after you had accepted my offer? Surely you would not expect me to shuffle lamely into the arena to fight for your honor with the outcome uncertain, possibly affected by my injury? Certainly not! And, of all the cursed bad luck, I've got this terribly wicked pain in my shoulder. Damnably difficult to hold a sword at the moment, or do artful things such as whisk it back and forth in a terrifying manner. No,” I shook my head, “I'm afraid that I could not in good conscience step into that ring without being at my absolute best. Your very reputation demands that I sit this one out!”

There were a few moments of stunned silence, during which it was very hard not to chuckle.

“Your reputation as a swordsman,” he said, still attempting to maintain a certain level of outrage, “was the very thing that caused me to accept your proposal in the first place! You were to fight the duel, personally guaranteeing that my reputation was ... was-”

“And I agree!” I interjected, not allowing him time to pick out his next word, though I may have in fact been saving him from an awkwardly long pause. “My reputation as a swordsman and duelist is not a small one, I will admit. Fie, I was vexed when I realized that I would not be able to personally defend your reputation against this arrogant young whelp here.” I flicked my head at Redforne, who had not moved an inch from his original position since this whole charade had begun. “However, knowing that an illustrious Lord such as yourself would settle for nothing less than the best, I took myself out of contention in order to let someone more qualified than I, in my feeble and injured state, take over for me.”

I motioned to Ismir, who took that as his cue to step forward and nod at Lord Greybridge, who looked terribly uncertain and frustrated.

“The duelist for this contest shall be Ismir Hantaan, a swordsman of renown from Vereet. No estate, or title,” I said, waving towards him and bowing my head after finishing my formal introduction.

Ismir bowed his own head towards Lord Greybridge, who was at a loss regarding how to object to this newest development.

Redforne pulled the eldest of his dueling party closer to him and was angrily whispering something in his ear. After a couple of nods, the young man trotted away from Redforne and stood before Lord Greybridge, who cocked an uncomfortable ear to the lad's urgent whisper and listened carefully.

Everyone in attendance would probably be wondering what that meant. Why was one of Redforne's dueling party speaking privately with Greybridge?

Slowly but surely, it was becoming apparent to all who watched that things weren't as they seemed.

I stole a glance at the Prince's booth, and saw that he was leaning forward as if greatly interested in what was transpiring on the grounds below.

“Lord Tucat,” Greybridge said loudly once the youth had scurried back to Redforne's side, “I accept that you find yourself ... that, uh, you are unable to participate in this duel because of injury. Because of this, I've negotiated an extension so that the duel may be fought at another time, one that sees you at the height of health and readiness. I have no doubt that-”

“There is no need, Lord Greybridge! I've already made provisions for Ismir to act as champion for your honor, paid him for his trouble in full, and he stands ready and able. I, for one, would not think of dragging our beloved Prince out to the Circles to act as witness today, as is his duty, only to have the whole thing cancelled and rescheduled for another time. No,” I said, shaking my head sadly, “as much as it grieves me to do so, I must allow Ismir to stand in my place. This matter between you and ... this Redforne person, it must be resolved immediately.”

“This Ismir fellow,” Greybridge said, as though suddenly struck with an idea, “I've never heard of him. You pull this last minute sort of substitution, some cock-and-bull story about your shoulder giving you a bit of trouble, toss in this virtual nobody of dubious skill and declare that he's my 'champion'? How could I possibly find this an acceptable replacement?”

“Perhaps I may be of some help on that score, Milord,” Tanin said, stepping forward.

I grinned inwardly. There's a certain amount of satisfaction in seeing some element of your carefully laid plan suddenly come into play, thwarting another's attempt to turn your own plans sideways.

“Oh? And just who the devil are you?” Greybridge asked.

“Tanin Hauklim, Milord,” he said, sketching a stiff bow from the neck, not from the hip as was customary. I wondered if perhaps some of my own contempt was beginning to rub off on those around me. “I have the honor to be an instructor for swordsmen down here at the Circles, and am familiar with the prowess of both Lord Tucat and with Ismir. Without question, of the two men you see before you, Lord Tucat is the inferior swordsman. I say this without any doubts or reservations whatsoever.”

Okay, he didn't have to say it exactly like that.

“Oh? I find that hard to believe. Most of us here are very familiar with the reputation of Lord Tucat,” Greybridge snorted.

“In my professional estimation, Milord,” Tanin said patiently, “I would stake my very reputation on it. In a practice bout between these two, you would be lucky to see the honorable Lord Tucat score two touches in a best-of-ten match. I've seen both of them fence various opponents, and I've seen them fence against each other. Ismir is simply the better of the two.”

I coughed. Tanin glanced over at me, then looked as though he'd just realized something.

“Of course, I mean no offense with respect to your level of skill, Lord Tucat.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You are in fact a quite capable swordsman, all things considered.”

“Oh, no offense taken,” I said, sending him a quick, wry nod back. “But still ... two? I mean, come on...”

“Outrageous!” sputtered Greybridge, who looked as though he could feel the momentum of his righteous indignation slipping away. “I find this unacceptable!”

“I cannot possibly see how you could. I mean, I've spent a thousand gold marks of my own money on Ismir here, just to make sure you'd be adequately represented today. You've heard that not only is he a fitting replacement, but that he's much,” I gave Tanin a meaningful look, “much better than I am. What possible reason could you have to be dissatisfied?”

He didn't answer me, but instead looked to Redforne, who continued to stare in my direction while remaining perfectly still. Doubtless he'd worked out what Greybridge had not. I'd outmaneuvered them. I wasn't about to fall blindly into their trap, or set foot inside that circle with Redforne today.

Just to be an ass, I looked to Redforne and winked.

“Lord Greybridge, though it would be considered unusual, you can ask that Lord Tucat no longer represent your interests with respect to this duel, which would then have to be rescheduled. Do you wish to do so at this time?” Herald Cartwren asked.

“I-” he began.

“Lord Greybridge, please relax and take your seat in the stands. This duel is on me,” I laughed. “Enjoy yourself! If you wish some wine, or perhaps a spot of something to eat, I'm sure I could loan you some coin...”

He looked at me, baffled. Then, seeming to comprehend the meaning of my words he took a sharp breath and looked to Redforne in shock. I also noticed that the curly-haired youth standing to Redforne's left had become noticeably paler upon hearing my last comment. He whispered something under his breath while looking at me.

Redforne looked to Greybridge, then looked to me again, the hate-filled expression softening into a resigned look of disgust. Then he looked back to Greybridge and gave the slightest shake of his head.

“N-no, that won't be necessary,” Greybridge said uncertainly.

“To be clear - you find the current duelist and second to be satisfactory?”

Greybridge could only nod, a bleary look on his face.

I cheered inside.

“The party for Lord Red- uh, Teuring - please announce the names of both your duelist and your second for this contest.”

“Thank you, Herald,” the youth to the left of Redforne said through clenched teeth, his voice identifying him as the speaker Lord Greybridge had been arguing with the night before. “The duelist for this contest representing the Teuring estate, currently managed via proxy by the Redforne family, will be Eagan Redforne, son of Salvatori Redforne, Earl of Fen-Arryl. Acting as his second will be myself, Dion Copperthorn, current custodian of Fen-Arryl.”

“So let it be recorded. Gentlemen, please take your places. The duel will commence once both duelists have entered the circle and have signaled their readiness to me, beginning and ending on my word,” Cartwren said, looking positively relieved that the ad-lib stuff was over and done with.

The crowd went to muttering, and likely there were many who were suddenly wondering about the status of their own wagers, if they'd placed one. Cyrus said something softly to Tanin, who nodded, and they both retreated several steps away from the circle to where the non-active members of the dueling party were to stand.

“Okay, Ismir, like we discussed. I have reason to believe that this guy is good. Very good. If you see an opportunity to beat him, take it, but I want you to stay protected even when you do. Got that?”

“Vincent,” he said, a dubious look in his eyes, “you have a worry, should not. This thing you say, 'pretend'? Lie? Cannot pretend so good as beat me, hmm?”

“Ismir, I'm serious. Protect yourself out there. If you start to lose or get cut, I'll offer up a draw right away. I figure they might accept a draw, given the level of confusion around here. If they don't accept, and if things start to look bad, we yield.”

“Yield,” he snorted derisively, shaking his head.

“Ismir, do not take this kid lightly!” I lifted my chin across the ring at Redforne, who had moved so little in the past ten minutes that he resembled a statue. “He's probably extremely angry right now, and-”

Ismir just chuckled and patted me condescendingly on the cheek before shifting his shoulders slightly and removing his tunic.

He was wearing a simple yet foreign-looking sleeveless shirt that emphasized his substantial sandy-brown arms, not that they needed it. They bulged impressively as he opened the thick cloth wrap covering his dangerous looking and elaborately curved sword. It was a large, thick piece of metal, and he lifted it almost effortlessly.

From a raw power perspective, he could easily compete with Theodore, who was no slouch in the muscle department himself. There were a couple of appreciative murmurs from the crowd.

Hopping over to the circle edge nearest us, Ismir stepped into the ring and twirled his sword a couple of times, blade slicing the air expertly. Then, after making a small production of cracking his neck, he grinned across the ring at Redforne and made an inviting gesture with his hands.

Muscles began to tighten in my back, and I began to feel tense. This was it. Once Redforne entered that ring not even the Prince himself could step foot inside it, on pain of death.

I walked over to my spot as second for Ismir, just outside of the top of the ring and a few feet away from Herald Cartwren. I gave him a nod.

“You couldn't have given me more of a heads up?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

“Didn't know exactly how it would happen. What you saw was the best case scenario, actually. There was an outside chance that he might have just drawn steel and attacked me right in front of everyone.”

He snorted. “Now he'd have to get in line. Some folks in the crowd seem awfully angry with you, taking yourself out of the match and playing havoc with their wagers.”

“Wait until they see the match. I suspect that a lot of them will suddenly find themselves wanting to thank me.”

Which was true, unless I missed my guess. Now that Redforne had owned up to his true name, if he had any degree of skill with a sword whatsoever he would apply it here and now, for the sake of his family honor.

I watched Ismir caper about and perform a couple of crowd-pleasing warm-up moves, prompting some appreciative applause and the occasional cheer. He seemed to be enjoying himself - a crowd like this didn't come along every day, after all. Occasionally, he'd glance at Redforne and make inviting gestures with his hands.

Lord Redforne was dividing his attention between Ismir and myself, hardly paying any attention to the young man known as Dion, who was urgently speaking into his ear. Then, quite suddenly, Redforne snarled something out of the side of his mouth at him and gestured with his head towards the Herald.

Dion stopped speaking mid-phrase, closing his mouth slowly. Nodding, he turned and also took his place a few feet from Cartwren, studiously ignoring me as he did so.

Scowling, Redforne turned to the other of the youths who had accompanied him and held out his hands expectantly. The boy hurriedly unwrapped the bundle he was carrying, allowing his Lord to draw the two magnificent swords I had glimpsed what seemed like an eternity ago.

Task finished, the youth retreated hurriedly to his designated area under the watchful eyes of Cyrus.

Redforne held these marvels of weaponsmithing before him and negligently thrust both swords point first into the hard-packed earth just outside the dueling circle. Hands reaching to his neck, he pulled open and removed the lumpy, ill-fitting, and rather silly looking garment he wore, practically tearing it off his body and discarding it behind him.

The sound of a thousand jaws dropping at once is a strange thing to experience.

I'm very fit. I can run for hours at a stretch, perform acrobatic routines, all manner of athletic endeavors. I keep myself trim, and would go so far as to say that there are those who believe me attractively built.

I don't go out of my way to avoid mirrors, despite my multitude of scars, is what I'm saying.

But this kid, well ... ye gods!

His resemblance to a statue didn't limit itself to how still he'd been standing. If he were turned to marble in that instant, I would have assumed that he was an elaborately exaggerated monument that was being dedicated to some new exercise-conscious deity at the city cathedral.

I mean, it was ridiculous how this kid was put together. His muscles stood out appallingly – even his little muscles, the ones that had no business even being there, cast shadows in the afternoon sun.

The outfit was an act, much like his show of poor swordsmanship ... he'd wished to give absolutely nothing away.

Like the fact he was built as though he could tear a bull in two. After beating it in a foot-race.

Giving me one last look of utter hatred and contempt, he prowled into the circle as he yanked his two equal-length swords out of the ground, one in each hand. Then, casually, almost negligently, he whipped the swords around his body in a manner I'd never seen before, all half turns and slight bows that turned his movements into a complex dance of whirling steel and death. It appeared as though its sole function was to impress and intimidate.

It did a really, really good job.

The routine only lasted a few seconds, ending very deliberately with an idle one-handed twirl of each sword, him crouching in an elaborate looking guard position, the points of both swords leveling themselves toward his opponent's chest at two different heights. He stared across the ring at Ismir.

All good cheer and high spirits now utterly removed from Ismir's face, the Vereetian stood in the classic Eastern guard position he favored, crouched and presenting his left side forward with his sword arm raised and slightly behind him, blade running level with his cheek and dagger in his left hand held with the point down. He licked his lips nervously, suddenly having eyes only for his opponent. Redforne was wielding two longswords, which was unusual among swordsmen, and what was more he clearly knew how to use them.

I got a very bad feeling, suddenly.

“Duelists ... begin!” Cartwren called out, his voice containing the barest trace of a squeak.

Ismir didn't move, opting to stay in his modestly defensible pose and see what this surprising young Lord did. He didn't have to wait long.

Redforne moved quickly and decisively forward two steps before leaping into the air. His torso twisted as if to deliver a savage overhand blow powerful enough to shatter stone.

Ismir pivoted on his back foot and brought his sword around to counter.

Somehow, in a blur of motion that defied all logic and reason, Redforne twisted in mid-air and sent himself spinning in the opposite direction that he'd started. His sword became a silver arc whipping around his body at a speed that shouldn't even have been possible.

There was a sharp clack of metal on metal, followed by the sound of a sword skipping along the ground. The audience was mute, amazed. I stood there in wide-eyed shock.

Redforne had batted the sword out of his opponent's grasp as though he were a child.

Ismir stared dumbly at his empty right hand, and then to the edge of the circle where his sword had somehow ended up. Then finally, he looked at Redforne with an expression of disbelief.

The young Lord had turned his back to Ismir and wasn't paying his fellow duelist any attention whatsoever, walking towards me with an air of supreme confidence, fixing me with a hateful, steely-eyed glare. He tilted his head to the side and gestured meaningfully at Ismir, who was scrambling to retrieve his sword.

Then, raising his eyebrows and chuckling smoothly, Redforne walked back to the portion of the circle he had started from. Languidly stretching as though he did not possess a care in the world, he moved into the exact same guard position he'd begun with.

Ismir, sword recovered and now holding himself with a great deal of uncertainty, moved back to his original spot and took his guard position. His eyes seemed much larger, and a little wild.

Seconds passed, neither of them moving.

I watched as Redforne nodded to Ismir, a gesture that I assumed was an invitation to attack him. Ismir frowned and licked his lips, seeming extremely wary of his young counterpart.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, Ismir lurched forward with a mighty battle cry, and ... performed a feint, pulling back almost instantly. He was very good at it. I'd experienced a couple of those first hand - they were unnerving.

Redforne didn't even flinch. He stood impassively, a bored look on his face.

Ismir attacked in earnest not two seconds later. He charged forward, sweeping his sword from the side in a downward arc with one arm, flipping his dagger around and stabbing with the other, two attacks being launched simultaneously.

Redforne met them solidly, two sharp clangs announcing to all that each blow was deflected with considerable force. During this, he nimbly stepped sideways to riposte, as well as avoid a second thrust from Ismir's dagger.

Ismir parried the slicing cut coming at his neck, feinted again with his off-hand blade to draw a block, and then kicked himself forward to deliver a strange, downward lunge with his curved blade.

Rather than meet it or simply backing up, Redforne twisted bodily around Ismir somehow, seeming to spin sideways and through his larger opponent. For a brief moment, it was as if they occupied the same space.

Ismir fell heavily to the ground with a surprised 'oomph', having tripped over one of Redforne's bright silver blades, which had unexpectedly snaked its way between his legs.

Momentarily stunned, the burly swordsman could do nothing as Redforne, still managing to look bored, twisted in place and brought his sword sharply towards Ismir's exposed back.

There was a loud 'slap' as the flat of Redforne's blade smacked Ismir between the shoulder blades, a move that a mere turn of the wrist would have made fatal.

For a second time Redforne walked straight up to me and gave me an intensely meaningful look before returning to his original starting position, still looking relaxed and unconcerned.

Ismir, coughing, made his way back to his feet only to see Redforne standing exactly as they'd started, patiently waiting for his quarry to recover so that they might begin anew.

Now, I'm no slouch when it comes to swordplay, and I make it a habit to keep informed of other duelist's progress on the ladders so that I'm never caught accepting a duel from someone who is considerably better than me.

I'd picked Ismir both because he was a damned good swords-man, and because his Eastern method of fencing was unusual. Surprising Redforne with a style that might be completely unknown to him seemed the most likely chance I had of winning this contest, something I had hoped to do even as I foiled his plans to murder me in the ring.

Though debate on the subject was often fierce, Ismir was considered to be perhaps among the top twenty duelists in Harael.

And Redforne was toying with him.

“Draw?” I ventured, my head peering around Herald Cartwren, addressing the offer to Redforne's second.

Dion simply continued staring forward as though I hadn't spoken, not acknowledging me in any way.

I looked back to the dueling circle. My eyes darted from Ismir, who was holding his hand to his ribs and looking unsteady, to Redforne, who was exuding a kind of dangerous, sleepy confidence.

Once Ismir recovered, he assumed an Eastern guard position, but of a type that I'd never seen before. Shaken, he simply stood there, waiting.

Redforne crooked his head at Ismir inquisitively and chuckled sadly. Then, he bolted towards his foe and...

He lobbed one of his swords skyward.

Everyone held their breath at once, it seemed, watching the off-hand sword sail through the air in a slow arc towards the astonished Ismir.

Still rushing forward, Redforne hopped and spun, swinging his remaining sword at Ismir's head.

There was another ring of metal on metal that hurt the ears, followed by a second. The young Lord danced out of the path of Ismir's questing dagger and snatched his own airborne blade mid-arc, and with a contemptuous downward thrust pierced Ismir's boot, pinning the large man's foot to the dirt of the arena floor.

Ismir let out a howl of pain and fell to one knee, dagger falling to the ground. His left hand reflexively reached for his injured foot, his right hand still clutching his strangely curved blade.

Redforne sneered, yanked his blade upward, freeing it from the flesh of Ismir's foot. Once more turning his back to the dark skinned swordsman, he gave me a mocking smirk, as if daring me to say something.

It was quite obvious who the better swordsman was, despite Ismir's unusual style.

“The party representing Lord Greybridge yields to Lord Redforne,” I announced, quickly.

Herald Cartwren, who was standing there rather wide-eyed himself, looked quickly to me and then back to Ismir, then letting his breath out explosively. Drawing himself up, he cleared his throat.

“The party for Lord Greybridge yields the matter of honor to the party for Lord Redforne. Would the party for Lord Redforne please indicate their acceptance?” he said, sounding slightly out of breath.

There were a few moments of silence, the only sound being the agonizing, hissing intake of breath through Ismir's clenched teeth. Redforne was walking slowly back to his original starting position. I stared at his back for a few moments, then looked over at the man who was acting as his second for the match.

Dion wasn't looking at me or making any sort of indication that he'd heard the offer, but was instead staring off into the distance, his jaw firmly set.

Redforne's eyes met mine, briefly, and his face took on a devilish grin that was more than half sneer.

And he winked at me.

Oh gods!

It seemed that Lord Redforne wished to send me a message.

“Redforne!” I cried, an icy feeling of dread enveloping me. “We yield! There's nothing more to prove. You've won!”

If he heard me he didn't acknowledge it, turning back to Ismir and resuming his deadly looking guard position. He watched as the larger man lurched to his feet, muscles in his shoulders knotted, and every inch of him radiating pain and shock.

Ismir looked for his fallen dagger, slowly bending down to retrieve the small, wicked looking blade...

The tip of Redforne's sword flicked at the guard of the dagger, causing it to skitter out of Ismir's grasp and sending it flying out of the dueling circle completely.

Ismir turned to raise his sword in a clumsy defensive parry. It was struck soundly by one blade just as Redforne's second blade came out of nowhere and struck the left side of Ismir's exposed head.

Once again, the flat edge of Redforne's sword connected instead of the edge, turning what would have been a fatal blow into a ringing, shocking crack to his temple. Ismir's eyes became unfocused...

And then they focused very abruptly.

Specifically, they focused on the blade being held by Lord Redforne, the very point of which had been thrust between Ismir's teeth.

Not bothering to look at his wide-eyed opponent, Redforne gave me a look that seemed to be equal parts boredom and anger.

“Redforne, this isn't necessary! You-” I began.

Sneering, he flicked his wrist with idle contempt.

The point of the blade sliced easily through Ismir's entire cheek, a horrific cut extending from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his cheekbone in a grotesque half-grin.

Ismir shrieked with pain and fell to his knees, sword clanging to the ground, forgotten. Blood began to trickle through his fingers, which were pressed rigidly against the side of his face.

“Redforne!” I screamed at the young Lord's back as he nonchalantly made his way back to his starting position. “We yield! This man has done nothing to you!”

Redforne once more took up his dangerous looking guard position, a sleepy sort of half-smile on his lips.

I began to tremble noticeably, and seemed no longer in control of the muscles of my face.

It had never occurred to me that Redforne might use Ismir as a way of venting his frustration as he watched years of careful planning fall apart around him. With his family name to consider, all the political ramifications of his actions here, this wasn't rational.

Perhaps he'd gone a little crazy at seeing all of his hard work unravel in the span of a few heartbeats. Whatever the reason, it was becoming clear that he had no intention of letting Ismir leave the dueling circle under his own power, if at all.

An offer of a yield did not automatically end the contest – there was no requirement for the other party to accept such an offer, ever. Men had been humbled, crippled, changed forever because someone in a position of authority had decided to make an example of them by way of a cleverly timed duel. Much like he'd planned for me.

Much like what was happening here.

“Dion!” I called out to my left, unfeigned urgency in my voice. “He's not thinking straight! You've won! Accept the yield, if only for the sake of your family's reputation!”

I may as well have been talking to stone. Redforne's second continued to stare into the distance, affecting not to notice what was going on around him.

Several horrifying minutes stretched themselves into an eternity. Ismir, still clutching his cheek, seemed unable to do more than uncertainly raise his blade as a token gesture of defense as the insatiable Lord Redforne swooped in again and again. Whirling arcs of steel caught the sun's rays as he danced around his injured opponent, drawing blood at will. Ribbons of sweat-streaked blood began to decorate Ismir's torso and arms.

Once, after tripping Ismir and sending him tumbling embarrassingly, Redforne crouched into a spin, his main sword arm stretched out dramatically, razor sharp steel singing its way past a spot just over Ismir's head.

A small tuft of black hair leapt upwards with a twitch, containing the tiniest suggestion of bloodied scalp.

“Stop!” I cried, desperately. “We yield, dammit!”

He snarled at me, turning his back.

“Eagan! What would your father think?” I shouted.

He froze.

The last of my words seemed to make an impression on him, though not at all the kind of impression I had hoped.

He slowly turned back towards me, radiating anger. His eyes contained a fury that seemed to steal air from my lungs.

Those same eyes darted back to Ismir, and narrowed.

In a flash he was on him once more - a backhanded sweep with his sword producing a deep cut high on Ismir's wrist, a sharp downward cut opening the flesh of his shoulder.

Ismir twitched feebly with each cut, his attempts at parrying becoming more erratic, likely going into shock.

Redforne was no longer even pretending that there was anything artful to what he was doing any more. The masterful style he had displayed fell away and was replaced by straightforward, savage moves that spoke of a bestial kind of cruelty, a desire to inflict pain.

Again and again he dove at his foe, his sword flashing mercilessly. Patches of blood decorated Ismir's arms, his tunic, his face, everywhere. Large droplets of the stuff darkened the earth beneath him.

“This is your fault, you know,” he shouted, turning his glare upon me briefly after yet another cut to Ismir's shoulder.

“Eagan!”

“See?” he swept his blade frighteningly close to Ismir's face, producing yet another trickle of blood, this time from the bridge of his nose. “Just look at what you've done.”

I pleaded, threatened, tried anything I felt had a chance at ending this travesty. Ismir's eyes had become glassy and unfocused, filled with pain and confusion and fear. Redforne's had not lost any of the fire that had burned in them upon mentioning his father.

My ears picked up a close-mouthed scream of frustration, and I realized it was coming from me.

And then, not content with simply cutting Ismir, Redforne lifted his swords high and spun in place to deliver a savage mule kick, leg connecting solidly with the Vereetian's head. Ismir fell over to his side awkwardly in a tangle of pain-contorted limbs, his head thudding against the ground.

The blood from his cheek and wounds too numerous to count had mixed with the earth, producing a sinister black mud that clung to his hair and forehead as he began to rise.

Redforne's eyes locked on mine as he kicked Ismir over again, more violently. There was the sickly crunch of cartilage.

Again he struck, even harder this time, an expression of unholy glee lighting up his face. Ismir tried lifting his head upright, receiving a clanging blow from the pommel of Redforne's sword for his trouble. As he cried out in pain, the young Lord sneered and leapt backward a step and whittled a gesture at Ismir, cutting his ear nearly in half.

I opened my mouth for the hundredth time to protest uselessly, desperately, feeling as though I would have a more productive time negotiating with an enraged bear.

“Why hullo, Lord Tucat,” a familiar voice said from somewhere behind me. “I must say, this is a frightfully bizarre sort of situation, neh?”

I didn't look behind me at first. However, when I saw the new expression adorning Redforne's face, I quickly turned to see who the unidentified speaker was.

After momentary confusion, I realized that I should be looking down.

Prince Tenarreau, Lord of all Harael, was surveying the scene with one eyebrow raised.

“Your highness,” I said, looking down at the young-seeming grey-haired figure and bowing slightly from the waist. I couldn't think of anything to say beyond that.

Some astonished muttering was beginning to make itself heard. Maybe the crowd hadn't even noticed him as he'd made his way down to the arena floor. There were no guards standing nearby – maybe they hadn't noticed either.

He's sneaky that way.

“Please don't pay me any mind. I just thought I'd come down here and observe from a better vantage point. It's part of my job, after all, attending these things.” He gestured towards the ring. “Did I hear correctly? Redforne?”

I looked at Redforne, who had stepped back from his bleeding quarry and was looking at Prince Tenarreau uncertainly. I turned back to the Prince.

“Yes. Eagan Redforne. I believe he is the son of Salvatori Redforne, Highness.”

“Really? Salvatori? Well, how unusual. You know,” he said, his voice suddenly carrying much further, “I recall watching Salvatori fight when I was a boy. Remarkable swordsman. Ridiculously good, really. Don't recall him ever losing. A true gentleman as well, always conducted himself honorably, inside the Circles and out. Merciful as well...”

There was an awkward silence, as nobody seemed to move. I once again looked to Ismir, who was on his knees with half a blood-streaked arm wrapped around his head, rocking back and forth in agony. Redforne was still staring at the Prince.

“Oh, please, pay me no mind. Continue what you were doing. I didn't mean to interrupt,” Tenarreau said, face unreadable. It was unclear exactly who he was speaking to, and he wasn't looking at anyone in particular as he said it.

Redforne licked his lips nervously, still looking at Tenarreau. He stepped back a few paces, looking down at his helpless opponent as if considering something. Then he twirled both swords familiarly, looking to once more take up his devastating guard position.

“I say,” the Prince interjected once again, his voice arresting Redforne's movements, “who is that fellow on the ground there? Is that Ismir Hantaan?”

“It is,” I said, simply.

“Oh dear. Damnably inconvenient ... he's my current favorite for this year's tournament. I believe he's scheduled to compete in a few days time, though I don't suppose he'll be in any shape to make that engagement. Pity, that. Did you know that he is actually Veretian royalty?”

I didn't know that.

“No, I had no idea, Highness.”

“It's true, though he doesn't like others knowing. Cousin to the current reigning monarch there, fellow named Teresh, if memory serves. Not a Prince, though. I forget what their leaders are called over there, though I'm certain it's something unusual.” He peered curiously at the semi-prone figure huddled in the dueling circle. “I do hope nothing unfortunate happens to him – I imagine I'd have to put together some sort of formal apology, make an official visit or some such thing. Inconvenient, those. Have you ever been to Vereet, Lord Tucat?”

“I can't say I have, Highness.”

“Dreadful. Hot. Can't say I care for it,” he sniffed, turning his head towards Ismir.

I looked to Redforne to see his reaction, as it was clear the words were intended for him to overhear. A Prince did not take sides, officially, and could not bring about an end to a duel, even one that he himself had granted.

The Prince was, however, making it perfectly clear to Redforne how he felt about the current situation.

The angry young Lord's attention went from the Prince, to me, back to the helpless dark-skinned figure who sat half-curled in the ring, blood still flowing from his cheek, his foot, and countless small, sadistic wounds.

The crowd's murmurs grew louder. Redforne's lip was twitching slightly, and he wore the expression of a man who's just been smashed in the groin with a brick.

All of us were still for a long, tense minute.

Redforne's sword tips lowered, and his head drooped slightly.

He turned away from the injured combatant, walking towards his second. I could hear him speaking quietly, under his breath. Dion looked surprised as he nodded at the swordsman, who was already turning away from us, and cleared his throat.

“The party for Lord Redforne does accept the-”

Redforne let out an incredible shriek of frustration and fury that seemed to be directed at the gods themselves. With the same unbelievable speed and athleticism he'd shown during his duel he spun in place, savagely hurling his main-hand sword clear across the dueling area to the very edge of the arena. Its flight seemed to defy gravity, and the pommel hit the marble retaining wall with a force that was certain to have damaged wall and sword both.

Ringing madly, the small fortune in forged steel fell to the ground and was still.

Ashen-faced, the young lad holding the deerskin pouch raced quickly towards the fallen sword.

Redforne, planting the other sword point first into the ground, head bowed, began walking out of the circle.

“-does accept the yield offered by the party for Lord Grey-bridge,” Dion finished morosely, eyes looking to the edge of the arena where Lord Eagan Redforne had hurled the near priceless sword.

There was a pause, and a rather flushed Herald Cartwren found himself having to take a deep breath to compose himself.

“The matter has been ceded to Lord Redforne by the party for Lord Greybridge, by way of a yield being offered and accepted. So it shall be recorded,” he said. “This duel is ended, the victor is Lord Eagan Redforne.”

It was over.

“Well, wasn't that exciting?” Prince Tenarreau remarked dryly.

“Healer!” I yelled, rushing forward into the ring to help my fallen friend. Both Cyrus and Tanin were running towards us as well, and I saw that Cyrus clutched the bag we'd brought tightly in his hand. Several healers were also running towards us.

As I eased Ismir into a reclined position I saw his eyes darting back and forth, confused, like a boy who has been spun around too often and is dizzily attempting to get his bearings. The blood was still weeping from his multitude of cuts, but not nearly as profusely as I'd expected.

Cyrus came up, hurriedly kneeling and already pulling out bandages and braces.

At some point I felt myself being lifted up and away from Ismir, several hands entering my field of vision, voices assuring me that they'd do what they could. Nodding, I stood back dumbly. The air smelled of copper after a rainfall.

Eventually, I realized that Redforne was standing beside me.

“Know this,” he said darkly, his hushed voice deep and confident, utterly unlike the one I'd heard him using as part of his Teuring persona. “The time you have left on this earth would cause a fruit fly to despair. I will see you die on the end of my sword by week's end, I swear it. No matter how tightly you bottle yourself up in your keep, how cleverly you hide from me, I shall find you.”

“This man is my friend,” I whispered back through clenched teeth, tearing my own eyes away from the macabre scene in order to meet his. “If he dies this day because of your actions, I promise that you won't have to look hard.”

We locked stares for a good, long while.

“Redforne, is it?” Tenarreau said, still sounding as if nothing going on around him were out of the ordinary.

Reluctantly, Redforne tore his murderous gaze from mine.

“Highness,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Expect me to be calling on you later this day. I'm very interested in some of your most recent activities, and how you came to be known as Lord Teuring,” he said, giving Redforne a look that was completely at odds with his calm, reasonable tone.

“Yes, Highness,” he replied, bowing in acknowledgement.

“I take the integrity of our city's family and property records very seriously, and dislike it when such records are altered. Or borrowed,” he said. Then, peering at the scene inside the dueling circle, he added “Cyrus Crowfoot, I would make a note of that as well. For future reference.”

Cyrus turned and gave a small gulp of surprise. “Yes, your Highness.”

“Well then, good,” he said, drawing up his shoulders slightly and giving a small sigh of satisfaction. “Lord Tucat, if you would please attend me, I shall require a moment's conversation with you as well. Sort of now-ish, in fact.”

“Highness, might I be allowed a few moments to ensure that Ismir is taken care of?”

He pursed his lips, considering, and then nodded his assent.

“Capital idea. Yes, be sure to let me know how he's faring. I shall let my knights know that I'm expecting you within the hour.”

I nodded.

Tenarreau turned and signaled to his knights, most of whom had just arrived on the arena floor with panicked expressions on their faces. They quickly fell into step behind him.

Once the Prince had his back to us, Redforne spun on his heel and walked speedily away, with Dion and the other youth trailing awkwardly behind him.

The chatter of the crowd became a dull roar of astonishment and disapproval. Doubtless they'd be talking about this one for years.

It was over. I had won, for the moment. The attempt to trick me into a duel that would have meant my death had been thwarted. I had outsmarted my foe, proved myself more clever than him.

I watched as the healers ordered a cart for Ismir, debating with each other on what the safest way to move him might be. Face no longer a twisted mask of agony, Ismir lay quite still in the blood-soaked dirt.

There was entirely too much of it.

I suppressed a sudden urge to vomit.

Victory.

“Oh yes,” I said, bitterly. “I'm just so damned clever.”