wasn’t bothered at all that one of the opponents would have to be carried out feet first. Like any gnome, Lucky was overflowing with confidence.
Eel. A long straw. Meilo Trug thrust out his lower jaw in disappointment.
That left only Deler and Lamplighter.
Mumr. A short straw. Short. Sagot save us all! Lamplighter’s going to fight.
Algert Dalli’s soldier opened his fist to show the whole hall that the last straw, which would have been Deler’s, was long.
The dwarf spat angrily. He had been keen to fight, too.
Mumr did not seem at all upset that the next day he had to fight a duel to the death. He cleared his throat, shrugged indifferently, and put the straw away in his pocket.
“So be it,” said Milord Algert. “The weapon?”
“The long sword,” Meilo Trug replied, glaring hard at Mumr.
“The long sword,” Mumr said with a nod.
“Tomorrow morning you will be sent for, but now I invite you to share bread and honey with me.”
I didn’t know about the others, but I couldn’t eat a single bite, and I got up from the table leaving the food on my plate untouched.
“Any moment now,” Kli-Kli said with a nervous little jump. He sniffed and took a large bite out of his carrot.
“Can you stop chomping for a little while?” I growled at him irritably.
“No, I can’t,” said the royal jester, shaking his head. “When I get nervous, I want to eat.”
“Calm down, Kli-Kli,” Honeycomb told him. The commander of the Wild Hearts was just as jumpy as I was.
“What do you think, Honeycomb?” asked Kli-Kli, biting off yet another piece of carrot. “What are Mumr’s chances?”
“I don’t know.”
“It all depends on how well he handles his sword,” said Hallas, puffing away on his pipe.
“Believe me, Meilo was born with that piece of steel in his hand,” Kli-Kli sighed. “It’s not that easy to win a royal tournament.”
“Our Lamplighter’s no pushover, either,” the gnome replied. “You don’t get an oak leaf on your sword handle for nothing.”
I paid no attention to them. I wasn’t interested in their arguments.
The morning had turned out cool, and the sun was hidden behind the clouds that covered the entire sky. Together with many inhabitants of the castle, we were standing round a large open area of hard-tamped earth in the center of the courtyard. There were no fanfares and no festive streamers; this was not a tournament, but a trial by duel. Milord Algert and his daughter, the elves, Balistan Pargaid, and Alistan Markauz … all of them were probably as nervous as I was, but you couldn’t tell it from their noble features.… Darkness take me, I felt as if I was the one who had to go out there and fight. Oro Gabsbarg was the only one who seemed to be bored.
A whisper ran through the rows of spectators, and I turned my head and saw Meilo Trug. He walked unhurriedly out into the arena, turned to face the nobility, and bowed.
Even for this occasion Meilo had dressed like a dandy: a red silk shirt with wide sleeves, maroon breeches, boots polished until they shone, black leather gloves. The bidenhander was resting on his left shoulder. The long sword was almost as long as the man. Stick it in the ground and the massive round knob at the end of the handle would reach up to Meilo’s chin.
Mumr appeared a minute later. He entered the arena from the other side of the castle courtyard and halted facing his opponent. Like Meilo, Lamplighter was wearing a shirt, but it was black wool, not silk. Coarse soldier’s trousers and a pair of soft boots … The only thing the duelists had in common were the leather gloves on their hands and their heavy bidenhanders.
Neither of the warriors wore any armor—no armor was allowed at the court of the goddess. Lamplighter was a master of the long sword, and so was Meilo, so the duel would be fought until one of them made his first serious mistake. One good blow from a blade like that is enough to dispatch any opponent straight to the light.
Lamplighter had a black ribbon round his forehead to hold back his long hair and prevent any sweat running down into his eyes. He casually set down his sword with the point on the ground, holding the crosspiece lightly with his fingers.
Meilo glared fiercely at his opponent. Mumr replied with an indifferent glance. He looked as if he had come out for a morning stroll, not for combat. Beside Trug, Lamplighter looked skinny and puny. In his hands the bidenhander seemed absurdly huge and heavy.
“Are you ready?” Algert Dalli’s voice rang out above the arena.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Challenger, do you still wish to dispute this right of ownership for your lord?”
“Yes,” Meilo Trug replied, nodding firmly.
“The trial will conclude…”
“In death,” Meilo continued.
“So be it,” Algert Dalli announced, and nodded, thoughtfully twirling his beloved knife between his fingers. “By steel, fire, blood, and the will of the gods, I declare that Sagra is looking down on you, and she will decide who is right and worthy!”
I have already told you that the sword is not my weapon. Apart from the crossbow, the only weapon I have more or less managed to master is the knife. For was a great specialist in matters of swordsmanship and he tried to teach me, but after a few lessons even he gave up.
The only benefit I did get from those painful exercises with a wooden stick was a superficial knowledge of stances and the names of the various strokes. That was as far as my knowledge of swordsmanship, and my skill in it, goes. But I am grateful to my old teacher; when I see guards fencing in a castle courtyard or warriors at a tournament, I can at least understand why one man covers himself with his sword this way and another thrusts that way.
Meanwhile, a priest of Sagra, dressed in chain mail and wool, like all the soldiers of the Border Kingdom, walked out into the arena where judgment would be given. He drew his sword from its scabbard, thrust it into the ground between the two opponents who were standing facing each other, and started reciting a prayer, calling on the goddess of war and death to bear witness to this duel, punish the guilty party, and protect the righteous. Meilo did not move, and Lamplighter, cradling his sword in the crook of his left arm, slowly chewed on the straw that had brought him to this place.
“Oh, mother!” squeaked Kli-Kli, who was standing beside me, and at that very second the priest pulled up his sword, took a long step back, and said:
“Begin!”
Neither of the warriors began until the priest had left the arena. And all the time Meilo kept eyes his fixed fiercely on Lamplighter, who gazed idly at a spot that only he could see, somewhere up above his enemy’s head.
After six long heartbeats, Meilo gave a menacing growl and attacked first.
He took a sweeping stride forward, at the same time setting his left hand on the long handle of his sword, and the bidenhander flew off his shoulder as lightly as a feather. Meilo added speed to the sword’s flight by twisting his body, and struck a terrible blow, lunging at the chest.
As soon as Meilo started to move, the Wild Heart defied my expectations by stepping toward his opponent. I think I gasped, expecting the flying blade to slice him in half, but the Wild Heart’s huge bidenhander, which only a second earlier had been cradled in his arm like a sleeping baby, suddenly awoke and blocked his enemy’s thrust.
Lamplighter grunted and attacked his opponent’s unprotected flank. And this time Meilo surprised me—he moved almost right up to Mumr and turned his back on the flashing sword.
