Blade of Champions

Chapter Four: The Duel in Dogger's Yard

'Re – re-,' he wheezed, and through the mist his face looked like ash. 'Respite...'

Hughell nodded and walked slowly back towards the side of the courtyard where Idon stood, accompanied only by the groom and the scribe. The latter fidgetted uncontrollably; he looked nervous enough to spit ink.

A small flask was handed to Hughell. He sipped sparingly, trying not to look at Idon.

The young lord was hovering close by, trying to pin Hughell with a look that was half desperate, half threatening.

In order to escape, Hughell directed his attention across the square, to where the other champion lay stretched out on his back. The cluster of supporters had gathered around the man, watching anxiously. Even at this distance, one could see his chest heaving.

One man wound his way through the crowd and bent over the fallen champion, speaking close to his ear. Hughell thought he saw a nod in reply, but it was hard to tell.

As the one who called for the respite, the rules of duelling stated that it was up to the winded man to call its end. As the minutes slid by, Hugell felt a stir of hope. Anything longer than five began to grow embarrassing; longer than ten was considered shameful. He must have hit the man harder than he thought.

The flask was empty. Hughell handed it to the scribe without a word. Still his opponent did not stir.

A low murmur began to rise from the crowd across the Yard. They bunched closer to the fallen man, it looked as though they were urging him to rise.

After what seemed like an age, the man sat up. He got to his feet and the crowd parted to let him through.

This time, as they reached the middle of the square, the man smiled grimly at Hughell, filling him with suspicion. He did not look like a man struggling for breath. Without a word, they bent and recovered their knives.

Hughell steeled himself, lest he be caught off guard by the man's dubious recovery, but this time the fight was over in seconds. Hughell dodged the first thrust aimed at his face and countered with a lightening slice.

Missed again, he thought. He readied himself for another blow, but the man had stepped back, his knife lowered.

Then Hughell saw it; streaming down the man's forearm, scattering the cobbles with a rain of droplets. Blood.

Victory was his.

A yell exploded from the far side of the square, where a wide, wooden archway marked the entrance. All heads turned towards the sound. One of Idon's servants came running into the Yard, his face wild.

'My Lord!' he was yelling. 'Lord Icaan has escaped! He's making for Coraman - on the grey horse!'

Idon's face went white. He snatched the reins from the groom and jammed his foot into the stirrups, leaping into the saddle. The mare's head jerked around as he turned her for the gate and drove his spurs in.

Hughell took off after him.

The rest of their horses had been tethered outside the square. He untied his and clambered aboard, knees locked desperately to the saddle.

Far up the street, Idon and the chestnut mare were ploughing a path through the misty figures of the traffic.

Hughell dug in his heels and started after them, gritting his teeth against the jolting. He dared not go faster than a trot, for the street was busy and visibility poor. As it was he nearly trampled one unfortunate shopkeeper, who hurled curses after him through the fog.

Despite his slower pace, Hughell was surprised to find that he could still catch flashes of chestnut, weaving through the crowd ahead. It seemed Idon's frantic pace was causing more obstacles than it avoided.

They were almost neck-and-neck when they reached the city's edge, only to find the gate shut and guarded.

'Let me through,' Idon snarled.

The chestnut mare stood with her sides heaving, champing madly on the bit. Foam dripped from her mouth.

A guard appeared in the door of the gatehouse, saw who it was and scurried to open the gate.

The young lord stuck his spurs in, not waiting for the gates to part fully. The mare bolted forward, causing the gatekeeper to leap aside.

Hughell strove to keep up, his legs aching from the strain of hanging on. Before them, the road ran wide and straight, disappearing into the sea of grey.

Behind them, the midday gong began to sound, throbbing out across the empty fields.

Idon swore savagely. 'That grey will be mine. It will, if I have to kill to get it.'