Madrot, being a young man of great confidence in arms, fancied that his feats in the contests had won him the admiration of the maidens in attendance— Avarlon most of all, whose silky auburn braids, and luminous complexion had bewitched his untutored heart. Yet none received him kindly, nor granted him even the courtesy of feigned interest. Some maidens, themselves enamored of the comely Gedain, averted their eyes or even cast hostile sneers as Madrot strode past, as though he be some base villain deserving of scorn.
Come the eve after the joust, finding himself ignored and nursing a wounded pride, Madrot took to strong drink to dull his thoughts. In his cups he grew foul of temper as he espied Avarlon enthralled in flirtatious discourse with his defeated rival. Gedain, noticing Madrot’s glare, mocked him with a smirk and a whisper to those near, eliciting their laughter and disdainful glances. Stung to the quick, Madrot at last tipped his cup and shouted threats of violence. Such uproar followed that men were forced to lay hands upon him. They subdued the spirited Madrot and led him to his chamber, that he might sleep off the bitterness of his ale-and-wine-fueled wrath.
At dawn, with the weight of shame heavy upon him, Madrot gathered his belongings and slipped away whilst the city still slumbered under the spell of revelry. Upon passage from Gruen’s ramparts, he vowed to the watchman that he would never again set foot in “this shit-stinking midden of whores and scoundrels.”
Yet not two hours after Madrot passed through the gate, Avarlon’s father, Olian, caught his daughter attempting to slip into her chamber unbeknownst while still fully dressed in her finery from the evening before. Olion confronted her, demanding to know why she had not returned home the eve prior. Avarlon, pressed by the boar-faced scowl of her father’s stern inquiry, broke immediately into weeping confessing, “that vile knave” Madrot had barred her upon her path home, dragged her into a stable, and waylaid her honor by forcing himself upon her. Afterward, in shame and terror, she had hidden within the straw and shadows, crying all night, attempting to muster the courage to speak of the evil deed.
Noticing the very fragments of stable straw woven into her disheveled hair, Olian became enraged. Without delay he sought out the Steward Kethu, finding him in somber contemplation beside the garden fountain. There Olian demanded immediate justice, crying that his family’s honor now hung upon the steward’s swift hand. As Ceryd was yet abed, and with time being of the essence, Kethu dispatched three warden-riders to pursue Madrot, bidding them seize him, if need be by force, and bring him back to Gruen to stand trial.
Within the hour, three wardens thundered through the city gates. Yet Madrot had kept a furious pace, and they did not overtake him until eventide, when they espied him on the road, nearing the old stone bridge spanning the Meb.
“Halt!” cried the riders, and Madrot drew rein. They approached him. “Madrot of Dregrove, son of Mendo,” one shouted as they neared. “Thou art commanded to return with us to Gruen.”
“For what cause?” quoth Madrot, surprised.
“The Steward Kethu so decrees. Turn thy horse, else we shall bind thee.”
“My nephew is rex, now. Why is Kethu giving commands?”
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“It matters not. Turn thy horse.”
“Is this an arrest, then? What crime is laid against me?”
“The charge is rape,” replied one sternly.
Madrot’s face stiffened. “Who speaks such falsehood?”
“It is none other than the daughter of Thegn Olian, the fair Avarlon.”
“The maiden lies,” Madrot protested.
“Declare thy innocence before the steward when thou dost stand for judgment.”
“Do you take me for a fool? I will not return to that shit pile Gruen and submit to the false justice of petty nobles. Have the rex resolve it with my father.”
“Then shall we take thee by force,” quoth the warden.
“Thou mayest try,” Madrot scoffed, eyes aflame. “Yet I warn thee— I shall not yield. Press me, and there will be blood. But this vow I make: I shall slay but two of thee, leaving the third to bear witness to my mercy.”
The riders laughed as they reached for their swords, but their mirth withered as Madrot’s steed lunged forward, sowing chaos among their mounts. In the ferment, Madrot lifted the nearest rider’s sword arm with the vambrace upon his own, and with a savage upward arc of his cudgel, he struck temple and ear. The rider toppled from his saddle, lifeless ere he struck the ground.
Without pause, Madrot wheeled and galloped westward, the two remaining riders in swift pursuit. Upon a clearing beyond the bridge, Madrot turned his steed sharply and awaited them. Within moments, they arrived, drawing near with blades unsheathed, approaching from either flank.
Madrot unfastened his shield and raised it high. “Sheathe thy swords if thou dost value thy lives,” he warned, voice as blunt and cold as winter stone. “I will not submit.”
“Surrender!” cried one. “Now must thou answer for murder as well!”
“Ride away,” Madrot answered, “or thou bidst me answer for two.”
The riders crossed the bridge and spread wide upon the road, swords gleaming. Without further parley, Madrot charged the rider upon his left. Their blades met with a clash. Madrot deflected the stroke with his shield and, with swift precision, drove the dagger-end of his cudgel deep into the rider’s throat. Upon yanking it loose, the rider dropped his sword and, for but an instant, clasped at the fountain of blood spewing from his neck with both fists curled before he crumpled. His steed carried him a few faltering steps before he fell off to the side into the grass.
Turning sharply, Madrot faced the last of his pursuers. “’Twere better for thee to ride home than to be carried there. Turn back, fool.”
“I cannot,” the rider answered with grim resolve.
They met in fierce combat, cudgel against sword, shields battered with mighty strokes. The air rang with the sound of clang and thud. On the third exchange, the rider’s blade missed its mark, leaving his wielder’s arm exposed. With a savage swing, Madrot brought down his club upon the rider’s wrist and forearm. A crunch echoed through the clearing as the bones shattered. The sword fell from limp fingers and the rider cried out, cradling his mangled limb.
“Learn now to fight left-handed,” Madrot sneered. “Thou’lt be fortunate to keep that arm once the surgeon hath seen it. Go. Ride home and tell my nephew, and that lying whore Avarlon, that I spared thy life.”
“They shall come for thee,” the rider gasped through gritted teeth.
“Speak no more,” Madrot hissed, stepping close, the blade end of his cudgel raised. “Lest I take thy tongue as well. Go!”
