Field of Honor

R.F. McCaughey

"My quarrel is not with this foreigner, but with the mercenary and cutpurse, Maggenreathe of Skik Falls. I protest the Advocate's acceptance of this person as an honorable succedaneum."

The justicar frowned at the gray-haired noble. "I have heard your protest. I examined the testament presented, the Challenged party is deceased, with all worldly goods and debts assigned to this BhangBadea, who presents herself to answer your challenge upon the deceased. Challenger will answer the Advocate's query. Will you settle the Question short of this action?" The Advocate suspected the answer to come, as the power and reputation of Milot had been bound to this Challenge for more than nineteen months. If allowed, he might wish Milot would be satisfied now that the thief was dead. Unfortunately, Milot was a egotist tyrant with a reputation for pure ruthlessness, which, the justicar thought, the man enjoyed too much to change now. The little foreigner would just be another layer on that ruthless legend Milot was determined to build.

"My honor demands satisfaction." grated Milot heavily.

Of course. The Advocate turned away and looked at the small woman in tattered clothes standing barefoot, barefoot, in the morning sun of the Perl field of honor. Her second standing behind her made them quite an unmatched pair. He at ease, a towering royal army officer of Mortis in black lacquered armor, his eyes darting along the line of spectators behind the field's border. She standing ready, smaller than a girl of fifteen summers. Odd that no one seemed to have knowledge of this peasant garbed young woman. She hardly seemed to equal the reputation of the dead Maggenreathe. That tricky spellcaster had, after all, made good her escape with the master grimoire of Milot two years previous. The justicar knew Milot was not the first to feel the sting of the seldom seen Maggenreathe of Skik Falls. For some reason, Milot's pursuit of the arcane thief across countries and politics had been more zealous than any previous victim. But for all that, no one had flushed out the quarry. Now came this woman and proof the famous Maggenreathe was some time dead. And yet it was not finished. This nasty business must grind on by form and law because Milot would not reign in his reputation for always winning, always having satisfaction.

"Challenged?" The Advocate eyed her directly. She gracefully turned to face him then, taking her emerald eyes off of Milot for that moment, and shook a negative. He sighed to himself with the burden of her ignorance, "The Challenged must speak in response to the Advocate's Question. Will you settle the Question short of this action?" He managed to keep the edge out of his voice.

She returned her gaze to Milot, "I think not." The voice didn't carry very far.

He saw she knew not the whole of the requirements she was accepting. "The Challenged must state her answer in no uncertain terms. Your words are ill-chosen and might be interpreted as uncertain. Will you settle the Question short of this action?" he finished again. A flicker of something changed in her face breaking the cool surface of it and she spoke plainly, in a louder tone.

"If the Challenger, Milot of House Di Vorais, will admit to his cowardice, I will be satisfied." The small crowd heard her and a low sweep of whispers broke out.

The Advocate felt the blood in his face cool with sudden apprehension, she might be mad then. A madwoman could not satisfy the honor of this field. He flashed to the conclusion that he would have to stop the proceedings, if this were true. His face tightened. His dread now was for the reaction of Milot to his making such a judgment. Milot and the influence of the powerful Conservative faction the sorcerer liked to wield as a favorite whip. While the duel would have laid most of this ego business to rest, another minor obstacle pushed aside for Milot, stopping it must be done in a way that did not dishonor the Challenger. He must stop it now, even if attracting a shadow of Milot's displeasure to himself, even if the Office was, by tradition and law, immune to petty retribution from the actions taken here.

He opened his mouth to give breath to a word. Milot shouted instead, "Cowardice! This wench belongs in Hades!" he growled, "I'll not dignify her request with an answer, for she has not the breeding to understand my reply. It is fitting that she join her thief benefactress in the arms of death."

The Advocate stood poised, thinking hard. He felt eyes turning to him from all around, though he noted that the little country woman just nodded in response to Milot's answer to her offer. Cool and strange but not mad. He sighed.

"Challenged will choose the manner of satisfaction." He voiced and he motioned forward the arms bearers with the silver swords in their wooden cases. She couldn't hope to best one of Eregnor's premier sorcerers with magic, so he knew she must, despite her size, take the chance of swords, where the Eregnori was only passing-fair accomplished.

"Bare handed." she said.

"What?" slipped from the justicar's lips, and was covered by the exclamations of a dozen men, including Milot.

"I can't wrestle for my honor," spat the surprised Milot, "that's absurd!"

The woman called BhangBadea looked annoyed for the first time, "Well, is it my choice or not? It doesn't matter to me, I'm just trying to do things properly."

Someone beyond the border ropes laughed and another voice carried the opinion there might not be a proper bone in the little girl's body. The Advocate kept his face stony over his confusion as he searched his knowledge of the law for a precedent. Had not the King of Begma and the Crown Prince of Kashfa wrestled on Eregnor soil for the contested border five centuries before to prevent another war? A tale, perhaps, but accepted as history. She had the right.

Milot sensed the Advocate's hesitation, and spoke with the polished tongue of a noble born, "Since this is already of formal matter, and I have publicly stated that death is the satisfaction I want, the Advocate must see that we cannot wrestle to death, it is absurd." The justicar nodded in agreement.

"All I see is that Milot's choices are valued, and mine are not. If he wants death, he shall have it, but the manner is mine to choose," the little woman stated matter-of-factly. "If I do not have a choice, then tell me so, and I'll give him his death as he prefers it."

The Advocate felt the burden of justice becoming tarnished by this seeming foolishness, "The manner is your choosing, but you may not choose a manner which is unlikely to end the matter." That was well spoken, he thought.

"I see," was her soft reply. The justicar saw her work her jaw lightly with unsaid words.

She started again to speak, but her silent second stepped close to her and spoke at her ear. The big soldier looked to nearly bend double in order to pass his confidence to her, such was the difference in their heights. She shook her head once. He continued to whisper something. She listened. He straightened then, and stepped back to his retired position, settling his arms loosely behind himself again.

The small redhead stood in thought, then started speaking quickly in a voice that carried well, "I would not be here to settle the matter of honor for a dead friend, if I intended to mock your sense of justice." The word acquired icy tones in her mouth, as if the Eregnor sense of justice was certainly to be questioned. "I am here, prepared to do this morbid deed, in any manner that will end this business. I would prefer the satisfaction to take the form of restitution to her family, or perhaps an admission of cowardice, which I have been refused. Or even an apology."

Lines of Force, thought the justicar, there was that word again. Milot would not be quick in killing her now. The sorcerer rattled off a sharp reply, "I am the aggrieved party little fool, not you."

"I'm not done. Be silent, you scorpion" she snapped back. Milot's face mottled with rage.

The foreigner continued, "This entire matter is outright lies and half truths. To settle it, I am brought down to the level of little men, playing with power in a little field, in a little country." Her words sizzled among the crowd of Eregnor nobles attending. "The dead woman was hired to steal the book back from the witch . . . . "

Milot's hand jerked up fast and a Word was spoken, the hand acquired a bluish glow of pale fire. The foreign woman stopped her words short and Milot discharged the Clampfire at her. She backhanded it into the ground at her side where the grass wailed and died with rising vapors. Lines of Force! Milot had broken the code. And the woman turned out to be a spellcrafter cool as ice.

". . . who had seduced it away from him a few days before. Milot hired my friend to get it back. When Maggenreathe fetched the tome to him, he made that she had accomplished the task so quickly, that the stipulated fee would have to be renegotiated. She left with the book in lieu of her rightful charges. As she is dead, the book belongs to me now."

The justicar turned to Milot, as did the others, including the Heir Di Vorais, who was Milot's second. The Challenger's actions spoke volumes more than temper. "Lying squalid bitch!" raged Milot, his hand made Gesture. The air took on a smell of lightning. The Advocate trumpeted, "Cease this at once!" afraid he wouldn't be heard in time. Amazed then, when they did stop.

The Advocate looked at his two Wardens, who belatedly had their Grounding Rods out and ready and his eyes told them with a quick motion to watch Milot closely. Their faces were pale as he saw them understand him. Grounding Rods would not save them from a concentrated attack from the sorcerer, should his rage prompt one. The justicar turned back to the foreigner. "I would hear the rest, Challenged."

"I would like to tell it." She nodded at Milot, who glared at her, "In Eregnor, the vendetta of honor allows the aggrieved party to hire pursuit or assistance when the affronting party can not or will not be brought to the field of honor. Within the law, Milot of Di Vorais, has done this for nearly two years, trying to bring Eregnor justice to Maggenreathe while she lived in other lands. In fact, he has hired people to hire people to do it. The latest agents have made no bones about trying to take anyone back to Eregnor. They just want to collect the bounty."

The Advocate was stiff, "It is as the law allows."

The woman's eyes left Milot to study the Advocate now, those eyes glittered and smoked like little chips of green lava. "Change it then," she said quietly. Then she looked back at Milot, "Last week, the bounty hunters killed someone who was unfortunate enough to only look like a bit like Maggenreathe. Unfortunate enough to be talking to me that day."

"Unfortunate. Careless. An accident," the justicar said.

"Murder," returned the woman, still watching Milot. "Maggenreathe has been dead for nine months. He hasn't bothered to call off his dogs."

The Advocate drew in his breath sharply. Travesty. Shame.

"So, far too late, I decided to end the vendetta myself and came here. The papers are genuine, I am the lady's sole heir. Her debts and obligations are mine. If this scorpion will make restitution to the family of the innocent slain, apologize publicly, and admit to cowardice, I will consider the matter closed."

"I will even give back the book in question."

The Advocate considered. He saw some justice in this proposal. He did not forget the angry spell cast by Milot, either.

"Never," smiled Milot. "Never will I deal on a matter of honor with a foreign witch, sad story or no. Never believe for a moment, gentles, that I employ murderers. I am wise enough to send a cutthroat to catch a cutthroat, that is all."

The Advocate found this line of defense no comfort in the bleak picture of Eregnor's justice reaching out and slaying innocent bystanders in other realms. And Milot hadn't even troubled to deny it. The Advocate noticed the suddenly wintry eyes of the Heir Di Vorais. That noble had shifted away from Milot and closer to the crowd now. The Advocate considered again. Judging men and moods for over thirty years, he looked for no quick answers. But apparently House Di Vorais believed the counter charge possible. Or knew it for fact.

The Advocate returned his gaze to the woman in the green field. He mused on Justice. He considered that in all the nations that he knew, Justice was embodied as a woman. He set those thoughts aside, and tried to end his personal reflection. "The matter of this action continues. Neither side will accept compromise, it seems. A moment ago, I stated that the Challenged may not choose a manner of satisfaction which is unlikely to end the matter of honor. This is my ruling. What then, Challenged, of the manner you will choose?" She might pick magic as the weapon, but that gave her such a small chance. Very small. The Perl Ley line was only over the rise behind them all, and Milot could tap it from here in a drawn out fight. He knew these contests well. Both combatants would be quickly stripped of their prepared personal spells by ten minutes of magical combat. Then things would slow. But Milot would have the advantage of the Ley line's raw power at his call. If she could win in the first ten minutes, she would prevail. If not. . . . Milot had only ever come close to losing one of these affairs when swords were the method. Once again, the justicar's own thoughts were pushed aside until they were only a distant and unimportant part of this.

The foreigner spoke, "What would the Advocate accept as evidence that the Challenged can kill with bare hands?" she asked. A murmur from the crowd, they were locked in attention to the field.

His mind stumbled. She persisted. He felt the tension of the moment, his forehead tightened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Milot actually smile. He felt growing despair. She was impossible. He fell back onto the most basic law. Evidence. How? He didn't know. "Present your evidence." he said, surprising himself with the strength of his voice. Milot's smile grew and he chuckled. He wasn't the only one. The crowd of onlookers was alive with small sounds.

She turned away from them all. Turned her back and spoke softly to the Mortis officer, who nodded to her. Strangely, he smiled then, folded his arms across his chest and began to tip forward on top of the small woman. She reached up a little as he fell stiffly towards her, and caught him near his waist, one hand cupped to each side. A crowd's murmur turned to a buzz then as she bent her legs slightly and lifted the fellow up suddenly off the ground. She was damn strong for one so small.

They all watched. Just as the natural force of the world tried to inevitably bring the hundred-some kilo man back to the ground, she lifted upwards again before the soldier's boots had touched the grass. Her arms stretched firmly over her head and she turned back towards the Advocate, turning the stiffly straining officer in her hands as she came around. The Mortis man seemed to be exerting himself more to stay quiet and fixed by his effort, than she was to hold him supported while they all gawked.

"A trick." spoke Milot at low volume. "A spell."

The Advocate motioned one of the Wardens forward. The man hurried to the small woman's place in the grassy field, waved the Grounding Rod around her person, then the Mortis soldier's body for good measure. No spells were illuminated, nor certainly aborted by the rod's influence. The Advocate knew that strength, however impressive, did not constitute skill. And the mechanics of this evidence presented did not speak of combat skill either. It had been simply done. Almost pragmatically done. But he decided. This was not about how she could do this and his own speculations were unimportant. He had asked for evidence, and this was such. He knew his decision.

The Advocate spoke loudly, unnecessary, for all had become quiet, "It is to be bare handed combat, to the death." There, now his part was nearly finished.

"I don't believe this miserable day," Milot muttered as he began to unfasten his shirt lacings.

Apparently, much to the justicar's surprise, the sorcerer had wrestled before and wanted no extra clothes to give the woman purchase. Milot was not even worried by her display. Many surprises today. Then the Advocate saw something that stirred him. With no fanfare, the fey woman suddenly flexed her arms and knees a little, and tossed the lifted soldier higher into the air. The Mortis officer arced, flipped, and landed on his feet. Then he stood, and peered at them all. The big man ran his eyes along the crowd, then to Milot, who had stopped with his shirt off but still in his hands. Finally, the officer looked at the Advocate. The justicar found he was gaping and closed his mouth. At that, the big fellow in black armor smiled, and nodded to the Advocate, turned and walked back to his spot on the field. Once more he took up his relaxed stance.

Many surprises today. Suddenly, the Advocate believed that Milot would remember this duel for the rest of his life.

He was prophetic.

She was not cruel. It took her little more than twelve minutes. When Milot lay on the ground, chest down and face up, the Advocate closed the proceedings. The Heir of the House Di Vorais bowed and left quietly.

The Advocate gave his office's cap to one of the Wardens and became Lord Aurois in total. He walked to the foreign woman and military man standing alone.

He smiled thinly, "How pleased I am to meet you both. I am Aurois of House Perl. Do you have a place to stay this evening? I think you might wish to rest, or perhaps see something pleasant of our country? My home is not far."

They discussed it and walked off the field.

The body was left where it lay. Milot should not have pulled the boot knife. He proved he was a coward of little honor after all.

END