But Pryce had not stopped, was still moving, and brought the savage shard of metal in his left hand up over the inside of Uvoren’s wrist, sawing it into the flesh and screaming in fury. Uvoren bellowed, Marrow-Hunter falling from his weakened fingers as Pryce span away, his right arm swinging uselessly. Uvoren stooped and lunged for Marrow-Hunter with his left hand, but Pryce’s broken sword came out of nowhere, spearing into the hand and driving through, deep into the ground. Uvoren leaned forward, his face screwed up against the pain, gasping. He took several deep breaths and spat on the ground, glancing at his useless right hand which was tilted back, fingers extended and unresponsive. He was pinned to the floor by Pryce’s sword, driven through his left hand.
Pryce turned away from the stricken captain, breathing fast. His right shoulder still looked visibly depressed and he seized his own wrist, levering it upwards, face quivering with the effort until, with a pop, the shoulder resumed its socket.
“Help me!” gasped Uvoren, casting around at the guardsmen. “Kill him! Kill him!” But nobody moved. The guardsmen looked on, expressionless, at the scene playing out before them. Leon was nodding slowly at what he saw. Not a man spoke out for Uvoren, as Pryce turned back towards the Captain of the Guard, his right hand held tight in at his chest for support. He picked up Leon’s sword in his left hand, and walked to stand before Uvoren. The captain was on one knee, still pinned to the earth by that sword through his hand. Pryce stepped right into Uvoren, aggressively close so that the captain was forced to crane his neck upwards to look into Pryce’s face.
“You bastard,” said Pryce. “You total, total snake.” Blood was dripping from his chin and it splattered onto Uvoren’s cheek.
Uvoren glanced at Pryce’s right shoulder, relocated now but still grossly asymmetrical. “You are a madman,” he said softly. Then he bowed his head. “Make it quick.”
Pryce smiled. “No. Look at me, Uvoren. Look up at me.” Pryce slid Leon’s sword beneath the captain’s chin and tilted his head upwards. “My face is the last thing you will ever see.”
Uvoren stared upwards for a moment. Then he shut his eyes tight.
Many of the knights survived the lightning strike and subsequent slaughter on top of Harstathur. The momentum shift was so drastic and so evident that, to most, the prudent option had seemed retreat. They rallied by Bellamus and Garrett, who had somehow found a horse on top of the plateau (though accounts differed as to whether the horse had already been riderless or whether Garrett had knocked a Suthern knight from his saddle to take it). With Garrett by his side, Bellamus had then shown extraordinary nerve by approaching Roper’s banner with a white flag to bargain for the lives of his shattered army.
Roper received him on horseback, Gray and Tekoa on either side and a cluster of legates and aides waiting behind. Gray was slumped in his saddle, barely equal to holding his head up. Tekoa had a bandage round his head from where his eyebrow had been split by Uvoren’s fist. “Not a customary time for parley, Bellamus,” Roper observed as the two groups of horsemen met. He glanced at Garrett, mounted next to his master and covered in grime, with Heofonfyr still clutched in his hand. Bellamus looked calm and spread his hands in a gesture of regret to Roper.
“The victory is yours, my Lord Roper,” he said. “I applaud you; it was quite a battle.” He paused and smiled ruefully. “I thought I had you at the end.”
“But the Almighty intervened.”
Bellamus looked carefully at Roper. “Fortune, more like. We could have played that game a thousand times. Only one of those times would the lightning have broken my knights. It might have struck the Sacred Guard.”
“But it didn’t,” said Roper.
“No. It didn’t.” The words were the same, but the two leaders meant entirely different things. “But sometimes that’ll happen if you dress men in steel and send them out with lances into a thunderstorm. So I think that makes the score between us one each, though both in curious circumstances. I’m looking forward to our next encounter.”
Roper smiled thinly. “I think we both enjoy our encounters. But I doubt you enjoy them so much that you came here just to exchange these words.”
“I’m here for the lives of my soldiers. There is no need to turn your fine victory into a farmyard slaughter. If you let the remainder of my army march home, I will send you two tons of steel from the south.”
Roper raised his eyebrows. “I see you have learned to barter in steel rather than gold.”
“I speak your language,” said Bellamus with a smile.
“Steel would be welcome, but I want Bright-Shock back as well.” Roper glanced pointedly at the blade that Garrett clutched upright like a pennant.
Bellamus sighed. “Heofonfyr is not mine to give. The king himself gave the sword to Garrett. I cannot deprive him of what is probably the best weapon in Albion.”
“It was not the king’s to give in the first place,” said Roper harshly. He could see Garrett frowning as he struggled to translate the rapid dialogue.
“Oh yes it was,” said Bellamus. “Even by your own laws, what is taken in battle is the property of the victor. Your father was killed by my forces and his army sent reeling from the field. His sword was mine, to use as I saw fit. I presented it to the king and he gave it to Garrett. The offer is two tons of steel for the lives of these men here.”
“We could kill you all and take Bright-Shock now,” suggested Roper, shrugging.
“You won’t. As you have told me yourself, ‘not under a white flag.’”
Roper stared at Bellamus for a long while, and Bellamus stared back. Garrett
