“Within the laws of single combat,” rumbled Morlach venomously. “None of your outworld sorceries.”

“Indeed not.” Alak bowed. “I choose to fight with my own swords, which are lighter than your claymores but I assure you, quite deadly if one does not wear armor. Sir Varris may, of course, have first choice of the pair. The duel will take place just outside the main gate of Grimmoch Abbey.”

There was nothing unusual about that. A badly wounded contestant could be taken into the monks, who were also the local surgeons. In such a case, he was allowed to recover after which a return engagement was fought. In the logical belief that enmities should not be permitted to fester, the Thunsban law said that no duel was officially over till one party had been killed. It was the use of light swords that caused interest.

“Very good,” said Varris in a frosty voice. He was taking it well; only Alak could guess what worries—what trap is being set?—lay behind those eyes. “At dawn tomorrow, then.”

“Absolutely not,” said Alak firmly. He never got up before noon if he could help it. “Am I to lose my good sleep on account of you? We will meet at the time of Third Sacrifice.” He bowed grandly. “Good night, my lord and gentles.”

Back in his apartment, he went through the window and, with the help of his small antigrav unit, over the wall and out to his boat. Varris might try to assassinate him as he slept.

Or would the Caldonian simply rely on being a better swordsman? Alak knew that was the case. This might be his last night alive.

* * *

A mid-afternoon sun threw long streamers of light across blue turf and the walls of Grimmoch Abbey. There was a hundred-meter square cleared before the gate; beyond that, a crowd of lords and ladies stood talking, drinking, and betting on the outcome. King Morlach watched ominously from a portable throne—he would not thank the man who did away with the useful Sir Varris. Just inside the gateway, Abbot Gulmanan and a dozen monks waited like stone saints.

Trumpets blew, and Alak and Varris stepped forth. Both wore light shirts and trousers, nothing else. An official frisked them ceremoniously for concealed weapons and armor. The noble appointed Master of Death trod out and recited the code. Then he took a cushion on which the rapiers were laid, tested each, and extended them to Varris.

The outlaw smiled humorlessly and selected one. Alak got the other. The Master of Death directed them to opposite corners of the field.

Alak’s blade felt light and supple in his fingers. His vision and hearing were unnaturally clear, it was as if every grass blade stood out sharp before him. Perhaps his brain was storing data while it still could. Varris, one hundred forty meters off, loomed like a giant.

“And now, let the Allshaper defend the right!”

Another trumpet flourish. The duel was on.