The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3) (19 page)

—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Champion of Comoros

T
he words of the challenger stilled all conversation within the hall. Maia stared at the young man, who was probably just a slight bit older than she was. He had a solemn bearing, his eyes near glowed with anger, and he had drawn a maston sword, which he held purposefully before him. She saw the glint of the hauberk beneath his white-and-black tunic and cape, and his hair was dark, like Collier’s, only longer.

Carew kicked off the stirrups and landed with a clatter of the spurs on the paving stones. His own sword rung clear of his sheath. He was larger and more intimidating than the young man, although he had recently been wounded.

Maia stood at her table suddenly, feeling the thick tension fill the hall like haze.

“What abbey do you hail from?” she called out to the young man, who had declared his name Hove.

The look he gave her was dark and distrusting, and his gaze almost immediately returned to Captain Carew. “I passed the maston test at Augustin. You will not deceive me with your words as you have these others. Speak no more, woman. I will not hear you.”

“She is your queen,” Carew said angrily, closing the gap between them.

“I will have no bloodshed in my hall,” Maia said with firmness in her voice, though she felt her knees trembling at the prospect of the coming conflict. “Captain . . . disarm him.”

“It will not be difficult,” Carew said with a chuckle.

“So said the giant before he fell,” Hove retorted. He fell into a battle stance, guard held high, eyes focused on Carew.

The more seasoned soldier grunted with mockery and rushed at him with a flurry of blows. Maia remained on her feet, unable to feel the Medium at all amidst the drunkenness and frivolity of the coronation celebration. She had not expected Kranmir to challenge her right to rule so openly, at least not yet. As she heard and saw the two swords clash, she tried to understand the rogue Aldermaston’s motives. Why would he send a stripling, one who had passed the maston test at his own abbey? Certainly, the young man would be totally loyal and obedient, sharing the same regard for him as she herself felt for Richard Syon, but did that explain it?

She glanced over at her chancellor, who had a wrinkled frown on his face as he stared at the spectacle playing out in front of them.

Carew locked hilts with Hove and used his size to drive the young man back, but suddenly the young man dipped and hammered his gauntleted fist into the captain’s leg. Carew’s face twisted with pain, and Maia realized the blow had been delivered to his injured leg, the one that had been wounded in the battle of Muirwood. Carew crumpled and sagged onto one knee, but he countered with a punch to Hove’s ribs. The two men wrestled a bit before separating, both wincing and breathing hard.

“A cruel trick,” Carew sneered.

Hove saluted him with his sword and delivered a mocking smile before coming at the captain again, more vigorously this time. Carew struggled back to his feet, but he was limping now, and Maia felt a trembling of dread that her drunken champion was about to fail.

There were sparks as the blades met, and although he was younger and less experienced, the boy’s passion helped close the gap created by Carew’s skills and size.

“I do not like this,” Maia seethed, watching helplessly as the two men fought. A dark feeling wriggled inside her heart. She felt certain that she needed to stop the conflict. If she did not succeed, something dreadful would happen.

Carew pivoted and folded in, trapping Hove’s sword arm against his body. He snapped his head forward against Hove’s forehead, aiming for the boy’s nose but glancing his cheekbone instead. The young man’s head whipped back in a daze, and Carew twisted him around and threw him to the ground.

Maia saw the look of rage and fury in Carew’s eyes as he went after the young man, his sword raised to deliver a blow.

“Stop!” Maia shouted at him.

Carew ignored her and rushed up to kick the young man in the ribs. Prepared for the blow, Hove caught Carew’s leg before it landed and hoisted it up. Carew tottered and slammed down on his back, hard. There was a gasp from all who were assembled as the captain choked for breath, writhing on the ground. He clenched his stomach, trying to breathe, and Hove got to his feet and kicked the other man’s sword away. He looked down at the fallen captain with triumph, his sword at the ready.

“It is over!” Maia shouted. “Leave him be.”

The white-and-black knight gave her a rebellious look, his cheeks flushed, his breathing hard, but it was clear he had won. He said nothing in reply, but she could see by his look that he would defy her. He adjusted his grip on his sword and prepared to plunge it into Carew’s stomach.

“You may be brave, but do not be a fool.”

Maia turned and watched as Dodd strode into the center of the tables, a battle-axe gripped in one hand. Next to her, Suzenne sucked in her breath, clearly terrified to see her husband join the fray.

“The queen said no blood would be spilled in her hall this night. Stand down,” Dodd said.

The feeling of dread intensified in the room as Dodd purposefully closed the distance separating him from the other men. If Hove struck down Carew, it would leave his back exposed to Dodd. The young knight seemed to realize the dilemma.

“And who are you?” Hove said derisively. “Another lackey sent to challenge me?”

“I am the Earl of Forshee, whom you claim to serve,” Dodd replied, his voice and temper controlled. “Lay down your arms. You won the duel fairly. I will grant you that, even if Carew had too many cups. Put down the sword, man.”

“I serve the
true
Earl of Forshee,” Hove said angrily, stepping away from the writhing captain and facing Dodd with a martial stance. “Our true king to be. The Medium has chosen him to rule over us, and he will purge the realm of traitors. The coronation today was a sham. Our true king comes even now.”

Dodd met him in the center, holding his axe blade down and away. “You are deceived, friend. The true ruler of Comoros is the king’s heir, his lawful daughter. Kranmir overstepped his authority, so the High Seer has deposed him. You know not what you are doing.”

Hove’s face twisted with resentment and anger. “The High Seer? She is corrupt. She has fallen into the shadows.”

Dodd shook his head. “She is the true High Seer. If you would meet with her, you would—”

“Risk being deceived myself?” Hove challenged. “I pity your lord father and brothers, Dodleah Price. Truly I do. But they died in accordance to the laws of the realm. You cannot wrest my lord’s earldom from him out of revenge.”

The young man’s words pained Maia. She could see he was sincere. He truly believed she was a hetaera, controlled by a being beyond her. He had come into the heart of Comoros to challenge her right to rule, knowing that he would likely be killed. Perhaps Kranmir had even knowingly sent him to his death in the hopes it would help support his cause. The machinations of men sickened her. Hove did not look malicious, she thought, but he was clearly proud. His views were probably much like his tunic and cape—he saw things in black and white. He trusted his Aldermaston and obeyed him. She had to respect him for that, even if he had been misled.

The pressure on her heart grew stronger. Something was going to happen, something awful. She sensed it, though she did not understand what she should do to stop it. She only knew that the young maston should not be killed in the great hall on her coronation day. That would be awful. It would grieve the Medium further.

“I do not wish to fight you, but I will if you force my hand,” Dodd said, still keeping his axe pointed away.

Hove brushed his arm against his mouth, wiping away the sweat. “How gracious of you,” he said with disdain.

“We are brothers,” Dodd said, opening his arms wider. “We are both mastons. Cannot we resolve this peacefully?”

“You, a true maston?” Hove snorted. “I heard you were allowed to pass the test so you could remain sheltered at Muirwood instead of facing your fate with your father as a man.” His words were meant to provoke.

Dodd frowned, but his expression was smooth. “Well said. You will not yield then. I arrest you in the name of the queen. Lay down your arms or I will compel you.”

“There is no Queen of Comoros,” Hove replied bitterly. He struck out at Dodd, slashing his sword down and across in a series of swooping circles.

Dodd did not retreat from the slashes. He brought up his sturdy axe haft, using it to block the attack, and then kicked Hove hard in the stomach. Hove was knocked backward, but he recovered quickly and started a series of feints and thrusts toward Dodd.

It was axe against sword.

Maia squeezed Suzenne’s hand and reminded herself that Dodd had been trained to use an axe by Jon Tayt, who was an Evnissyen—the royal protectors of Pry-Ree. They were cunning in battle. Lia’s group of protectors had disarmed Maia’s father and all his men with efficiency. She felt a spark of hope, but it did not counter the feeling of doom that had seeped into the hall.

Dodd whipped up the flat of the axe head and blocked a blow and then jabbed the butt of the axe into Hove’s chest. The two continued to strike at each other, but the effort was mostly one-sided. Hove kept pressing the attack; Dodd kept defending against it. When an opening came, he took it and delivered a kick or an elbow to the other man, but he never used the axe blade itself for harm.

Before long Hove was panting with the exertion, but although Dodd’s brow glistened with sweat, he did not look winded at all. She realized now that all the hours he had spent chopping wood by Jon Tayt’s shed had served more than one purpose. He had a familiarity with the axe and he had the endurance to outlast his opponents. Dodd was not trying to hurt the black-and-white knight. He was wearing him down.

Those in attendance gasped and cheered every time a blow was dealt or missed. The emotion of the moment seared into the onlookers, making the fight at the center of the room the focus of all eyes. Some cheered when Dodd landed a blow against his enemy. Others booed at Hove, the sound rising and growing louder and louder.

Hove’s face grew more frantic as his strength ebbed and the crowd began calling for him to fall. Every thrust, every move was easily countered. The two were not the same size—Dodd was bulkier than his adversary, his arms more accustomed to the rigors of labor. He had a solemn look on his face, even as a ball of sweat dropped from the tip of his nose. Hove’s attacks were growing less and less intense, his legs starting to tremble as he shuffled one way and then the other. Carew had scuttled away from the fray, and now he stood watching the fight with some of his guardsmen on the fringe. His eyes were savage and full of hate toward the intruder, but she detected some grudging respect for Dodd. The captain held a bloody napkin to his nose.

“Are you getting tired yet?” Dodd asked the boy with a chuckle. “It looks like you would use a little rest.”

“You mock me,” Hove snarled. “If you were a man, you would fight me truly and end this!”

Dodd smirked but said nothing. The provocation clearly had not moved him.

Even though Dodd was winning, Maia still felt a growing sense of foreboding. She glanced at Suzenne, whose lips were pursed, her eyes riveted on her husband.

Hove stabbed at Dodd’s foot suddenly and then rushed forward to tackle him. Dodd planted himself firmly, legs bent in a low stance, and bore the brunt of the collision without giving ground. Hove heaved against him, trying—and failing—to throw Dodd down. Catching Hove’s foot with his own ankle, Dodd levered his adversary backward and slammed him into the ground.

Though Hove bucked and tried to get up, clawing desperately at Dodd’s shirt collar, Dodd easily shrugged off the blow and encircled the young man’s neck in a chokehold. Maia’s heart tremored with worry as she watched the boy’s legs thrashing.

“Enough! Dodd, enough!” she shouted as she finally pushed away from the tables and rushed off the dais to reach the center of the room. Gooseflesh crawled down her arms as she watched Hove’s eyes roll back in his head. He went limp and blood trickled from a cut on his forehead.

Dodd released his grip and rose, fetching his fallen axe. The hall erupted with cheers, and people surged to their feet, stamping their heels against the ground and thumping the tables.

Kneeling beside the unconscious young knight, Maia searched his sweaty face and saw the smudges of bruises already forming on his cheek.

“Fetch a healer,” she called, waving Suzenne over to join them.

“I did not kill him,” Dodd whispered with concern. “You knew I would not, Maia. He will be fine.”

“It is not that,” Maia said, hovering over the fallen knight. She felt the pressure around her heart releasing, the danger passing. Noise echoed throughout the hall, so she could not have heard anything. But she
sensed
it . . . a presence in the hall. Looking up, she slid some hair behind her ear and looked to the wooden struts and rafters supporting the roof of the hall. She saw him there in the shadows—the kishion—and his crossbow was aimed right at her.