Upon the morning of the ninth day of their vigorous march, the host crossed Briganta Bridge, very near the wide confluence where the Caleah meets the shimmering Fywater. There, upon the long green sweep of undulating grassland beyond, they espied the mustered strength of Reik Mendo— arrayed in distant silence like a wall of stones set upon the bare hill. Yet this was no surprise, for scouts had traced the Blodwin movements for leagues and days.
The sky lay overcast, but the air stood clear as polished glass, granting sight across the swelling plain.
“Their ground is the higher, my lord,” observed Captain Menek, shading his eyes. “But our numbers are the greater.”
No sooner had Menek spoken than a second shimmer of steel crested the horizon to the Blodwin left.
“Look south— House Fy joins,” Gedain said, squinting at their banners.
“Now our numbers are even… if they oppose us,” Menek replied.
“First, we parlay,” Ceryd declared. “No blood need be spilt this day.”
Thus Menek and Olian, Gedain of Welf, their bannermen and their squires, rode forth with the brothers Ceryd and Cerenid to meet these seasoned men, accustomed to border strife.
The Blodwins sent riders and footmen in equal number to the midway upon the open field, and with them rode the Reik of Fy and his two brothers.
- “Thinkest grandfather shall accept our terms?” Cerenid whispered as they rode.
“It is a foregone conclusion,” said Ceryd. “Mother hath arranged all.”
The opposing parties converged. Reik Mendo appeared more withered and greyer than the brothers had imagined. His frail form wavered in the saddle, upheld by his marshal on one side and by his daughter on the other.
Una, mail-clad though slight of frame, bore her helm beneath one arm; her umber braids spilled forth like tethers of autumn. A deep furrow carved her brow— marking her near thirty winters of iron resolve.
Madrot’s gaze found Olian’s first. A long, venomous stare passed between them. Olian ground his teeth, jowls trembling.
Then Madrot met Gedain’s glare. Gedain sneered. And Madrot answered with a slow, insolent smirk.
“Lords,” began Ceryd, “we have all ridden far these days. Let this parlay be fruitful, that resolution may follow.”
“Where’s the old Aeonite?” asked the Reik of Fy.
“He was too frail to make the journey,” Ceryd answered.
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“You two have grown,” Una remarked softly. “It hath been years.”
“Indeed, Aunt Una. A long time,” Ceryd said. “I trust you have received our terms.”
“We have received them,” Una replied.
“And House Fy?”
“We have,” said their reik.
“Then the tribunal stands agreed? Will the Fys take Madrot into their custody?”
But the wind rose, fluttering the banners as Reik Mendo began to mumble. His speech was mere dry, broken utterances, like a creaking hinge. Una leaned close, listening as though his nonsense bore meaning.
“My father has spoken,” Una said.
“I beg pardon,” said Ceryd. “What did he speak? I could not decipher it.”
“He says that he does not accept these terms,” Una answered.
Gedain scoffed. “Does a woman now speak for the Reik of Dregrove?”
Ceryd frowned. “I thought this matter was already decided.”
“My father hath had a change of heart,” Una replied.
“And what would he have?” asked Ceryd. “Let not this day turn to blood.”
Mendo croaked again; Una listened as though interpreting prophecy.
“My father demands that the trial be held here, now, upon this field.”
Cerenid gazed at his brother, awaiting his reply.
“And how,” Ceryd asked, “shall we contrive that? We lack Reik Maddad, who is yet en route to Fywold. He fulfills the quorum.”
Madrot stirred in his saddle. Una straightened.
“My father demands trial by combat, by the old law, here, this day. And so shall the matter be resolved once and for all.”
“This is not what was agreed,” Ceryd protested.
“Nevertheless…” Una said calmly. “It is my father’s will.”
“Your father risks battle, hundreds dead ere nightfall.”
Mendo mumbled anew.
“My father says trial by combat will avert the slaughter… He proposes a contest of noble sons. Madrot, heir to Dregrove will battle Cerenid, prince of Gruen, with justice being deemed the winner.”
Cerenid paled.
“The prince is no warrior,” Olian bawled. “He’s still a boy. There will be no justice from—”
Ceryd cut him off. “I have seen this future in a dire vision. Though my brother be valiant, I will not submit him to the peril I foresaw. Madrot is far stronger at arms.”
Mendo croaked again while Una listened.
“Still,” she said, “my father risks his own son, his only heir. His peril is great. He demands Gruen match his stake. Else war shall fall upon this field ere sunset.”
Olian’s steed danced anxiously beneath him as he burned in rage. Cerenid’s face drained as though a winter current gripped him. The Fys sat cold and unreadable. Madrot’s sinister smile widened like a blade being drawn.
Ceryd stared into Mendo’s clouded eyes, and there, behind the rheum and age, he discerned the glimmer of cunning— the trap. And Mendo knew he knew it. He turned to Gedain as if to implore him to fight but Gedain’s eyes lowered.
Ceryd pondered the tightening of the snare. There was no escape.
“Then I shall fight thy son, grandfather,” Ceryd declared, a confident grin cutting across his face.
“No, my lord!” protested Menek. We cannot risk the crown.
Ceryd turned upon him. “I have bested Madrot before. He is a brute, no match for my training. I shall end this strife today and win both justice and the honor of my men.”