Grim stood on the field in the fresh dawn’s light. Scaffolding had been built in the night to hold gallows and a single Rillman hung from the rope. His flesh was pale, and he swung slowly in the gentle breeze. Looking at him, Grim felt dead inside. He’d seen so much death recently it all just left him feeling numb.

To his left, banquet tables had been set up along the training fields where the trial of arms would be held, and guests were already arriving on the scene as food was being delivered from the manse’s kitchens via carriage. The feasting would go on into the day as contestants or their champions dueled under the eyes of their peers.

Grim tore his eyes from the dead man, hands drifting to the sword at his side. The Marshal had provided him a fresh set of equipment for the day. He wished he’d had more time to practice with the damned thing. He’d used a sword before, but he was far from a skilled hand with one. Finesse was not his strong suit, and he hoped could somewhat rely on brute force to carry him through the day.

He sighed at the thought, eyes drifting to the contestants. They were all already in attendance, likely fueled by the same nerves that had him already up and moving despite his aches from yesterday. A surprising number of them nursed minor injuries as if they had been in the thick of the fighting yesterday, their chosen seconds hovering nearby. Those men, Grim found far more interesting. There were no limits he was aware of on who could serve as a second. There were at least a half-dozen household retainers standing at the ready, hands resting on their armaments with a comfort that belied their experience. Many returned his gaze, sizing him up just as he did them. Grim grinned at them.

“Must you flirt so brazenly, Thorne?” A voice asked.

Grim glanced to his right to see Rafe approaching. He was armored with only a padded gambeson and a pair of leather gloves. His hand rested atop the hilt of a fine sword and brow was furrowed as if he had a monster of a headache.

Grim raised an eyebrow at Rafe’s armament. “Don’t you think you’re a little lacking in armor?”

Rafe waved a hand dismissively. “I’m a swordsman, Thorne. Not a brute designed to intimidate peasants. Quick hands and faster feet carry the day in such a competition.”

Grim shrugged. “You seem testy today.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry, your bastardship. By the Goddess’ bloody fucking tits, forgive my impudence. I wouldn’t want to appear-” he gasped, “Testy.”

Grim just stared at him.

“I haven’t had a drink in two days,” Rafe continued, “All I want to do is kill something, drink something, and then fuck something. Probably in that order.”

“Charming,” Grim commented.

“Ladies love a good tongue, Thorne.”

Grim nodded. “Doubtless.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me?”

Grim raised his eyebrows. “Never.”

“Ass,” Rafe said as he stomped off toward the tables where food was being served.

“Is that where the tongue goes?” Grim called after him.

Rafe shot Grim a rude gesture over his shoulder. Grim grinned after him.

“I see you’ve had the misfortune of meeting my champion,” A voice said.

Grim turned to see Brian approaching him with a plate filled with quiches. The boy held it out to him. “Thought you might want some.”

Grim smiled, eyes widening in anticipation. “You thought right,” he said, hands reaching for the plate.

“Didn’t honestly think he’d manage,” Grim said through a mouthful of quiche, nodding in Rafe’s direction.

Brian followed Grim’s gaze with a contemplative look. “You know, I’m starting to suspect he might have some twisted sense of honor about him.”

Grim snorted as he palmed a second quiche. “Twisted? Yes,” he said, “Honor? No.”

“And what has he done to deserve your ire?” Brian asked.

Grim opened his mouth to answer and found he had none. “Huh,” he muttered, mulling it over. “He’s still an ass.”

“Ah yes,” Brian said, “You would be an authority on the subject.”

Grim narrowed his eyes at Brian. The boy was growing bolder. It suited.

Grim took another bite of quiche and watched as the nobility arrived in a steady stream, parading across the field in elaborate gowns, jackets, and parasols. It all seemed very- odd when contrasted against the barracks filled with Venaran soldiers but a few dozen paces distant. A cordon of Longreen’s household guards patrolled the edges of the gathering, making sure the rank and file didn’t get any grandiose ideas. Seemed a good way to fill a man with to resentment if you asked Grim, but they weren’t his men, and this wasn’t his fort.

So- he ate quiche, trying to keep the corpse swinging in the background from his mind.

***

Harren sighed as he leaned over his washbasin, looking into the water. The reflection was blurry, but he could see and feel the raised blisters along the left side of his face. It looked ghastly, but the lion’s share of the pain had subsided into a consistent ache that was exacerbated whenever he moved his face. He frowned with a wince as he considered the scar it may leave, eyes drifting to his blistered hands. The irony of it all was that the tunnel flooding may have actually saved his life, limiting the burns to his most exposed flesh.

He’d cleaned himself as best he could, but knew he still looked like hell with singed hair and bubbling skin. A month ago, he might have cared, but today all he wanted was to do was see his brother and drink. A part of him almost felt guilty for not attending the day’s patrols as he usually did, but he was in no condition to be holding a blade or marching around the city.

His entire body ached with soreness, but it was a vast improvement over the overwhelming exhaustion in his limbs from yesterday. His body was less than agreeable with him being up and about, but at least he was no longer concerned he’d topple to the floor on a moment’s notice.

He splashed a final handful of water in his face, hoping he’d removed the worst of the soot. He patted his jacket pocket to ensure he grabbed the orders he’d written and sealed

before turning and opening the door to the hall beyond. As the door opened, it revealed Jareth sitting in the hall beyond.

The man’s sword was drawn, and he absently spun the tip against the stone floor, clearly bored out of his mind. At Harren’s approach his eyes snapped up. “Morning, sir,” he said with an inclined head.

Harren nodded in return. “You didn’t stay there all night, did you?”

Jareth shook his head. “Nah. I switched off with the rest of the boys in the night, but thought I ought to be here to brief you when you rose as you put me in charge and whatnot.”

It hadn’t even crossed Harren’s mind, but he was glad to see it crossed Jareth’s. “Anything to report?”

“Peltar came and spoke with Gavin in his room.” He shrugged. “General left an hour or so later. Haven’t seen Gavin since. Aside from that, the night was quiet.”

Harren’s gaze drifted down the hall to the quartermaster’s closed door. It was short sighted of him to let the quartermaster stew like that. It could have easily ended bloody before Peltar spoke with the man. Hells, the man might still be looking for his blood and divines knew the Sons would be looking for vengeance for the bad information given to them. They’d really made a mess of things. He sighed.

“What made you want to follow me?” he asked.

Jareth rose to his feet, sheathing his sword. “That’s easy. Fuckers killed a lot of my friends yesterday. You promised blood. I’m all in.”

“That easy?” Harren asked.

“That easy,” Jareth confirmed.

“Well then. Who else can I threaten to kill to get the rest of the Fifth on my side?” he asked.

Jareth grinned. “Could add the rest of the cohorts to the list.”

Harren chuckled. “Fuck it. Let’s take over the fort.”

Jareth laughed. “Not gonna lie, sir. I thought you had quite the stick up your ass when you first took over here.”

“It’s standard issue for nobility,” Harren quipped, “The world contrived to rip mine out and beat me with it.” He shook his head. “The past month has been- humbling.” His eyes drifted to Gavin’s door once more. “I’ll need to speak with him alone.”

Jareth frowned at that, hesitating a moment before answering, “As you wish.”

The big man followed Harren down the hall and leaned against one of the walls as Harren tried the handle, found it unlocked and entered the small room.

Gavin sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on his small bronze locket. He didn’t even look at Harren as he shut the door behind him and slumped into the chair by Gavin’s desk. A quiet hung between them until Gavin closed the locket with a click, wrapping his fist around the casing.

He looked up and met Harren’s gaze. The man’s eyes were red and there were lines beneath his eyes as if he’d found little sleep that night. His mouth quavered as he opened it to speak and paused. Gavin shook his head and forced the words out. “Thank you,” he said, “My lord.”

In those four words, Harren knew Gavin to be his man. “It’s Harren,” he said, “Unless I’m trying to impress someone.”

A small smile broke across Gavin’s lips and his eyes drifted back to his hand clasped around the locket. “I never thought there’d ever be a chance I could see them again.” He shook his head. “Why did you do this? You could have asked for anything.”

Harren pondered that himself for a moment. It was a lot of reasons. He pitied the man. It was the right thing to do. It would put the quartermaster in his corner. His old life felt an empty comfort in comparison. But most of all, he wanted the respect of the men beneath him. Not just lip service. He was beginning to feel a responsibility for them regardless of their feelings for him.

“Because it’s what your officer should have done the moment he heard your story all those years ago,” Harren said, “and what I should have done the moment you told me.”

Gavin’s lips made a thin line, and he unclenched his fist from around the locket. He held it out to show Harren and unclasped the lid. Inside was a small, faded portrait of a smiling girl in a fine dress with long, black hair.

“My wife,” Gavin said, “Our parents arranged the marriage when we were young.” He shook his head. “I was an utter ass to her in the early years, and Goddess forgive me for that. But, as time went by and the stupidity of youth faded, I found in her the most patient and loving companion a man could ask for.”

“She’s beautiful,” Harren said, though in truth he found her rather homely.

Gavin smiled. “I can barely remember the faces of the beautiful women I paid for the privilege of bedding in my youth, but I remember her face the day I left her like it was yesterday.” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “I barely remember any of the moments from my youth that had my blood pumping, but I remember the quiet moments- When I held my first child. The nights spent reading together by the fire.” He sighed. “The morning I woke up hungover in an unfamiliar bed and realized what a fool I was and how much time I’d squandered.”

Gavin closed the locket and placed the chain about his neck, tucking the casing into his shirt. “If you ever meet a woman who makes you feel like you’re home whenever you’re with her, never let her go.”

Harren nodded in understanding, and they lapsed into a silence. Gavin ran a hand across his face and broke the quiet a moment later, “If they find them, I’ll have to go to them. I can’t bring them here.”

Harren reached into his jacket and pulled the rolled piece of parchment he’d prepared that morning. He handed it to Gavin. The quartermaster cocked his head in a question before taking the papers in hand. He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll, eyes flickering across the script and widening as he read.

“I wrote your release orders this morning,” Harren said, flexing his aching hand. “The minute you get word, I’ll expect you to be on the next supply train out of here.”

Gavin’s hands shook as he held the paper, and he looked as if he might burst into tears. His mouth worked but no words came out.

Harren rose to his feet. “Until then, please see to the men as per usual. They could use direction at a time like this.”

Gavin nodded, eyes still on the parchment.

“Take care, Gavin,” Harren said as he turned and put a hand on the door.

“Wait,” Gavin said.

Harren paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder as Gavin rose to his feet, the scroll clutched tightly in one fist. “Thank you,” he said, bowing deeply to Harren.

Harren inclined his head in return and turned away from Gavin, striding into the hall.

***

It was nearly noon by the time he made it to the practice yard where the festivities were underway. He eyed the high sun with a measure of distrust, finding it hard to believe he’d been out for almost twelve hours. A cordon of the Marshal’s elite patrolled the enclosure, keeping out the rabble of the sixth legion. As Harren approached the yard, a stern-faced man moved to block his path.

He eyed Harren dubiously. Doubtless he looked much like he’d been beaten with sticks and left too long atop an oven. He came to a halt before the soldier as the man held a hand up, signaling him to halt.

Harren was a bit peeved that the man didn’t recognize him, but he supposed he’d hardly looked to be the same man he did on the day of his arrival in Bleakridge. The Soldier eyed his dress uniform, taking in his crisp green jacket, matching breeches, and standard issue boots. The shining insignia of his rank was sewn in thread of silver atop the image of a golden sun above his right breast.

“Sorry Sir, no soldiers allowed on the field today. Marshal’s orders,” the guard said as if Harren were an imbecile.

“I’m Harren Barrington, heir to Caldwyn and prefectus of the Fifth Cohort. The Marshal’s invitation to court has been extended to me,” Harren answered.

The man’s brow furrowed as he scrutinized Harren’s face. His eyebrows rose a moment later as he seemed to recognize some feature of Harren’s. “Apologies, lord. I didn’t immediately recognize you,” he said, falling into an appropriate bow.

Harren frowned. Hells- was it that bad? He nodded to the man in return as the soldier stepped aside. Harren wondered if he should just turn back before he shook his head and continued onward. Brian would want him there. The festivities were in full swing, and the sounds of combat could be heard in the distance as swords clashed.

Harren’s eyes were drawn to the sounds of combat, and between the gaps in the observing crowd, he could see Grim in the designated circle. He really had grown to be a monstrous brute of a man. It made Harren doubly regret the misspent years of his youth, needling him over his bastardry. Why did he even care about that as a boy? Likely just another way to confirm his superiority over his fellow man. His face twisted in pain as a frown crossed his lips. He hardly felt superior any longer.

Eyes turned to him and lingered as he crossed the threshold of the gathering, passing by the outermost guests as he neared the ring, following the sounds of scuffing dirt and ringing metal. He ignored the looks, finding a gap in the crowd and leaning against the small wooden fence separating the onlookers from the contestants.

Grim’s opponent appeared to be some household guard of one of the competitors. The man handled a blade well but was dwarfed in size by the Rillman who’s onslaught came with a ferocious strength and speed. Grim hacked with the blade like it was an axe. There was no finesse to it, only a brutal efficiency that kept his opponent on his heels, desperately parrying.

A few shouts of alarm sounded as the Retainer’s back collided with the fence on the far side of the ring. Noblemen and ladies scattered away as Grim’s blade hacked downwards at the man, beating him down with nowhere to flee. The sword came flying free from the man’s hands followed by hasty cries of “Yield! I Yield!”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

For a moment, Harren though Grim might run the soldier through. The big man’s breath came in ragged gasps, hot fury in his eyes. An interminable second passed on the edge of violence before Grim lowered the blade to the sound of polite clapping.

A herald climbed into the ring, announcing to the crowd. “Grim Thorne victor of the second bout. Next to the ring is Kline Xalder and Rafe Talstad.”

Harren watched Grim as he stalked from the ring, the battered retainer following in his wake. A figure leaned onto the fence next to Harren. Harren glanced to his right to see Rafe’s shit-eating grin.

“By the Goddess’ hairy cunny, you look like somebody tried to serve you up medium-rare,” Rafe said in greeting.

“Evidently the Sons thought my face could use some more color,” Harren said.

Rafe scrutinized Harren’s face. “Not sure I’d have picked, red, mottled yellow, and black, but Rillmen were never known for their taste.”

“Don’t you have a fight to go to?” Harren asked, glancing to where Rafe’s opponent waited in the middle of the circle.

Rafe chuckled. “What are they going to do? Start without me?”

Harren grinned with a wince. “Thanks for standing in for him.”

Rafe patted Harren on the shoulder far harder than necessary, sending stinging tendrils of pain through him. “What are friends for, my dear chap?”

Harren shook his head. “Last time I asked you that question, you told me a source of coin for wine, women, and whiskey,” Harren said.

“And you’ve been most generous over the years. About time I paid you back, eh?” Rafe said, a grin spreading across his lips. “You may be a cock swindling, self-important ass, but you’re my cock swindling, self-important ass. And that ought to count for something.”

As Harren opened his mouth to respond, Rafe leapt over the wooden fence, drawing his blade in an exaggerated flourish.

He raised his hands high above his heads, turning to face across the crowd. “Most esteemed Ladies and Gentlemen,” he called out. “I should like to dedicate this fight to our man of the hour- our most dashing and brave hero-” Rafe held out a hand toward Harren “Harren Barrington.”

Harren sighed, fighting the urge to walk back to the barracks as every face in the assembly paused to look at him.

To Harren’s chagrin, Rafe had more to say. “In the battle of the blaze one day prior, he and his men slew countless scores of the savage insurgents, who would seek to defile the honor of our fair ladies.”

Rafe shook his sword as if the mere thought set his blood to boil. “By his blade did the tide of battle turn, breaking the Rillish lines, cutting down their leaders, and raising the golden sun to heights of glory not seen since the last war!”

Harren was surprised to see cheers and applause follow Rafe’s announcement. Were they all actually so disconnected from what had actually transpired that they believed Rafe’s rubbish?

Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall what had happened in any of the raids over the past decade. Why would they know?

As the applause died down, Rafe addressed the crowd once more. “And we are blessed on this occasion for the Hero of the Flame, Harren Barrington, told me he would like to share a few words with us.”

Harren’s mouth dropped open as he registered Rafe’s words, the shitiest shit eating grin spread wide across the man’s lips. Fucking Asshole.

Every single eye had turned toward him. His mind spun into overdrive, searching for a word- any word. “Uh-” he said.

Was that the best he could come up with? Maybe he could throw an ‘um’ and an ‘er’ in there for good measure. All he could think of was the bodies of men floating in the tunnel, rays of light illuminating their sightless eyes, their faces a mixture of horror and peace.

There was really only one thing to say, the thing that had been on his mind every moment of the day since. He addressed the peerage, “Whatever my deeds, they could not have been done without the thousands of Venaran soldiers who fought and died. Without those men none of it would be possible. Don’t look to me for a hero. Look to the men who chose to follow me.”

A somewhat uncomfortable silence followed that proclamation. He didn’t expect them to like it. He wouldn’t have appreciated it even a week ago, but it was true. After yesterday, he felt it in his bones. A truth beyond words.

Rafe shot Harren a bland look before raising his blade into the air once more. “Hear! Hear! For the glory of Venar!”

That elicited a round of applause as Rafe turned to face his opponent, Kline- a young nobleman of solid build. His family oversaw the operation of several of the labor camps in the frigid north. There was precious little to occupy oneself with up there other than work, swordplay, and hunting. It showed in the young man’s physique.

A lack of patience also showed in the expression on the boy’s face as he glared at Rafe. Rafe met the glare with a good-humored grin and saluted Kline with a flourish of the sword. The boy didn’t return it, simply readying himself in a middle guard.

“Begin!” the Herald called.

Kline rushed forward at Rafe, driving with the point of his sword.

Rafe moved with shocking speed, sidestepping the thrust and batting it off course with his own blade. Kline grunted as an elbow found his jaw and sent him stumbling.

Rafe was hot on his heels, thrusting with his blade.

Kline narrowly managed to deflect the blow, feet skidding through the dirt as he centered himself on Rafe, far more wary than he’d been a moment ago.

Rafe took the offensive this time, feinting an overhead swing and bringing it around the flank.

Kline caught the blow, bronze blades grating together as Rafe pushed into the strike. Kline heaved into the blade and Rafe spun away, releasing the pressure and sending Kline stumbling once more.

The hilt of Rafe’s sword found Kline’s face and his nose exploded in a shower of blood. To his credit Kline kept his feet, a hand clutching his broken nose, blood flowing freely between the fingers. As he noticed Rafe’s blade below his throat, he dropped his own sword without objection.

A polite round of applause sounded from the observing nobility. Harren nearly joined in before thinking better of it, glancing at blistered hands. As the herald entered the ring to announce the outcome and next fight, Rafe leapt from the ring next to Harren. He grabbed Harren by the arm and led him away.

“Divines man. I line you up to tout your virtues and get every lady here looking your way, and you decide to spout off about the plight of the common man?” Rafe asked.

Harren stopped in his tracks. “You didn’t see them, Rafe.”

“Oh, I saw the whole of the court looking at you like you sprouted horns,” Rafe said.

Harren shook his head. “Not them. The Sons. The Outwalls. Thousands of people died yesterday. All that stands between us and our heads on pikes is the men of the Sixth.”

Rafe gave him an annoyed expression and put a hand on each of Harren’s shoulders. “Yes, and the legion is still there- right where we left them.” He sighed. “Now, when I try to paint you a hero and improve your standing at court, please at least try to play along. I’d prefer it if our esteemed host found you rather difficult to dispose of, the fool that I am.”

Harren smirked. “You’re not going soft on me, are you?”

Rafe shoved him by the shoulders. “Perish the thought. I’m just trying to keep you alive long enough so you can pay off your quickly growing debt to me, Hero of the Flame.”

“If that catches on, I might just stab you,” Harren said.

Rafe grinned widely before turning from him and continuing through the crowd. Having nothing better to do, Harren shrugged and followed him. His reception was different than it had been at his last visit to court. People didn’t avoid his gaze or shy from him as if he were contagious, but they still shot him furtive glances and whispered beneath their breath as he passed like he was some strange, foreign curiosity.

He supposed it was an improvement, but it was still damnibly irritating. He told himself he didn’t care, but that was far from the truth. He fought the urge to shrink beneath their gazes, the burns along his face itching.

Rafe’s destination soon became apparent as Brian came into sight. Of all the unlikely people the boy could be talking to, he seemed to be engaged in conversation with Ilyena Thorne. The girl had blossomed in the two years he’d been absent from court, her face having grown more angular and the curves of her body evolving in all the right ways. Behind her, Grim sulked like a bear with a pinecone up his ass at the edge of the conversation, his eyes constantly drifting toward the fighting ring.

He’d been aware Brian had been aligning himself with the Thornes, but the notion still made Harren distinctly uncomfortable. By all rights and laws, they were Venaran nobility but at the same time they were distinctly outsiders. By even associating with them it alienated their positions with the rest of the families. Harren sighed. He supposed he’d actually been the one to put the nail in that coffin.

He forced an uncomfortable and somewhat painful smile to his lips as he neared. Ilyena caught his eye and flashed one in return that looked almost predatory. Brian caught his gaze with a look that was almost relieved.

“If it isn’t the Hero of the Flame in the flesh,” Ilyena called out as he approached. She curtsied. “I’m honored to be in your presence, sir.”

Harren couldn’t tell whether she was joking and expected that was intended. Grim snorted and rolled his eyes, leaving no doubt to what he thought of Rafe’s proclamation. It seemed they were of similar minds on the matter.

He decided to take the jibe in stride and feign ignorance. He bowed to Ilyena, taking her hand as she held it out and kissed the ruby ring atop her index finger. “The honor is all mine.”

She had the grace not to flinch at the touch of his blistered hand nor to let her eyes linger on the burns along his face. “I was just asking your brother about your deeds yesterday. By all accounts you fought through a dozen Sons to save the general of the Sixth Legion, braving the fires with every step.”

Harren ran a hand through his hair, eyes drifting to Grim who stared at him blandly. Harren smiled. “Tales have a way of growing larger with every telling,” he said, shooting a glare at Rafe. “And truth be told, it was only eleven Sons, and I didn’t so much brave the fire as run from it screaming.” He gestured to Grim. “And If that ox you call a brother didn’t carry me back to the keep, I might still be taking a nap in the Outwall gutters.”

Grim shrugged. “When you lock shields with a man, you don’t leave him behind,” he said, “or betray his secrets.”

A chill ran down Harren’s spine at that. “A sentiment I share,” he said.

Grim returned his comment with intense eye contact and a solemn nod. Rillmen were strange creatures. Harren did his best to approximate the gesture in return, the motion seeming to amuse Grim though the man said nothing more.

Rafe put a hand on Harren’s shoulder. “Ah. It warms my heart to see you two making googly eyes at one another. It’s like watching young Brian trying not to ogle your sister, Thorne.”

Brian looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Harren grinned while both Thornes starred daggers at Rafe.

Ilyena arched an eyebrow. “A gentleman may ogle if the attention is welcome. A concept I’m sure you’re unfamiliar with, my lord.”

The girl turned to Brian, dress swirling about her feet. “Brian, would you escort me somewhere with more palatable company?”

Without waiting for his response, she slid her arm through his. Brian blushed a beet red, seeming unable to meet the gaze of any of the men present. He cleared his throat. “Of course. I’d be honored.”

Harren raised an eyebrow at his brother as he watched them go. He suspected he now knew who Brian had been exchanging poetry with. How he had managed to impress Ilyena Thorne though was beyond him. Rafe’s mouth hung open as he stared after Brian. He slowly turned to Harren and mouthed ‘What the fuck?’

Harren just shrugged. Rafe furrowed his brow then shook his head. “I need a drink,” he muttered, marching off into the crowd.

Harren pursed his lips, realizing he’d been left alone with Grim. The other man seemed equally pleased at the prospect. “What deal did you make?” he asked.

Harren nearly choked on his own spit, mouth working to find words. “I- uh.” He glanced about at the far too many nobles about them and took a deep breath. “Our lives and coin for information,” he said.

“Shameful,” Grim commented.

Harren felt ill. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Longreen knows,” Grim said, “Peltar bargained for your life.”

Harren’s heart seized in a cold fear. “You just said-”

“Beyond my control,” Grim interjected.

“Shit,” Harren whispered, wondering what would have happened if he’d asked to leave Peltar’s service.

In the distance, Harren heard the yell of the herald over the din of the crowd announcing the victors of the latest fight. A moment later, he called Grim’s name. The big man scowled, hand drifting to the sword at his hip.

“Good luck,” Harren whispered.

Grim just grunted in acknowledgement before marching toward the ring. Harren watched him go for a moment before finding himself alone in the crowd. Nobody approached him as they would have a month prior, seeking his favor or courtship. His gaze drifted across the scattered groups of nobles surrounding the ring, drinking, eating and spelunking each other’s assholes. Was this what a thousand men died to preserve? How many more would have died had Longreen not expected Harren’s treachery?

He felt his fists ball at his sides and his breath came in a shuddering gasp.

***

Grim panted, sitting in a stool placed along the edge of the fighting ring. A line of red blood dripped along the edge of his sword’s blade. His last opponent had been slow to surrender and Grim dug his blade into the flesh of the man’s arm until he yielded. He wiped the edge with a dinner napkin a servant had provided him, the blood seeping into the white fabric.

The wounded retainer was being led away from the gathering by a healer, hands clutched to his torn bicep. Grim sighed and threw the bloody rag to the ground, inspecting the edge of his sword. The blade was notched and battered; not meant for the blunt use he was putting it through. Each fight was growing more difficult as the more skilled opponents rose to prominence. There were only a handful of bouts left. By Grim’s count, he had only one more match before the final fight.

He tore his eyes from the battered bronze at the sound of approaching footsteps. He raised his gaze to see his father approaching. The man bore his standard crisp, black attire and the golden signet ring on his left hand. Grim’s brow furrowed as the man came to a halt before him.

Grim rose to his feet with a tired grunt and sheathed his sword. “Enjoying the spectacle?” Grim asked.

Rodger Thorne seemed to ignore the question. “How did the fire in the Outwalls begin yesterday? The Marshal has been less than forthcoming on that point.”

Grim pursed his lips. “Good to see you too, father,” he said.

The Earl’s expression didn’t change, and he waited for Grim to address his question. Grim shook his head. “It was well underway by the time I made it out of the tunnels.”

The Earl’s gaze drifted toward the south. “Thirty thousand souls were displaced. We’ve provided shelter to many of the women and children in the castle, but there’s only so much room. Bread carts are being organized to help feed those in need, but it’s impossible to tell those looking for a free meal from those truly in need.” He shook his head. “It’s going to get bad in a hurry when hunger sets in, and yet Longreen refuses to provide aid, claiming he isn’t responsible for the actions of the Sons.”

“Let me guess, the Sons are claiming the Venaran’s started the fire on purpose?” Grim asked.

The Earl nodded. “To cover unspeakable crimes, or so the rumors say.” He was quiet a moment. “Did you notice any prisoners taken?”

Grim nodded. “Lots. Some might even be guilty of something,” he said, eyes drifting to the corpse hanging from the gallows.

A slight frown crossed the Earl’s lips, which might have been the most expressive Grim had ever seen him. The Earl fidgeted with the ring on his finger as he took in the sight. “No matter. I’ll do what I can until it spirals out of my control.”

Grim scowled. “Is there anything actually in your control? Does it not get tiresome sitting in your castle and watching people die?”

A flame of anger flared behind the Earl’s cold, dead eyes but his expression didn’t so much as twitch. “Do your job, and I’ll do mine,” he said.

Grim rolled his sore shoulders, the bronze plates of his armor grating as he did. His father turned from him and stalked into the crowd. A moment later, the herald called out the latest victor, Rafe. The proclamation named Grim and Reginald’s Second as the next combatants.

Grim turned toward the ring and made his way to the entrance. Reginald’s retainer was already in position- a big man, nearly as large as Grim was, himself. Grim smiled at the sight of the man’s flattened nose. A parting gift from the last competition when they’d broken into the nobleman’s rooms.

The man seemed less than pleased by the sight of Grim, a hard scowl lining his face. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he growled.

Grim smiled at him, drawing his sword. “Oh nose, whatever shall I do?”

Flat-face’s grip tightened on the sword and with a howl, he lunged forward at Grim, bronze blade flashing in the afternoon light.

Grim sprung into a high-guard, batting away the heavy blow. The force of it staggered him a step backward. Around the ring, the crowd gasped at the breach of conduct.

Grim gritted his teeth, finding his feet and pressing forward. He was shit with a sword, and he knew it. His only hope was to overwhelm his opponents through brute force and take skill out of the equation.

It quickly became apparent that this tact wasn’t going to work with flat-face as he shoved aside each of Grim’s blows, enduring and returning the forceful strikes in equal measure. Worse- he actually knew his way around a blade.

Grim leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding a feinted strike that would have hamstrung him. Grim panted as Flat-face backed off for a brief respite, having taken Grim’s measure. The man’s face twisted into an ugly grin, seeming to have found Grim wanting.

Grim roared as he charged forward, sword arcing out. Flatface deflected the blow, rushing forward with his shoulder and crashing it into Grim’s sternum.

The wind rushed from Grim’s lungs as he was flung from his feet and landed hard on his back. Instinct sent him into a roll and a moment later he heard a boot slam into the dirt behind him. He scrambled to his feet, blade thrashing wildly. Bronze clashed against bronze, doubtless saving him from serious injury.

Grim skidded across the dirt as he regained his footing and stared down Flat-face. The man walked a slow circle around him, blade held at the ready. That had been a near thing. Grim knew he was hopelessly outclassed in this match. He could yield, but that would place him at third at best. His father didn’t tell him to do his best. He told him to win. Grim gritted his teeth, knowing there was only one option.

He tightened his knuckles around the hilt of his sword, raising it into an awkward guard. Grim lunged forward, leaving his left flank exposed.

Quick as a viper, Flat-face thrust his blade forward into Grim’s armored shoulder.

Grim screamed in pain as the point caught between the bronze plates and a white-hot lance of pain seared through his shoulder.

Flat-face’s twisted grin faltered as Grim’s sword-hand angled for his throat. He tried to pull his blade free but Grim held it fast in his shoulder, screaming as the metal grated against bone and drove deeper.

Grim’s sword slashed the man’s throat in a spray of scarlet blood. Flat-face’s hands fell away from Grim and he staggered backwards, falling to his knees as his hands clutched at his ruined throat.

Grim staggered away from him, well aware that even a dying man could still be dangerous. Gasps and shouts were sounding from the assembled guests and the healers assembled for the event came rushing into the circle.

The next few moments were a blur as Grim found himself lowered to the ground, the blade and armor pulled free from his shoulder, followed by a hasty stitching of the wound. They’d only taken a quick look at Flat-face before leaving him to his fate, his last few breaths bubbling out through his torn throat.

Around the ring, intense conversation buzzed. Grim wondered how frequently contestants actually killed one another in the ring. They used real blades, so surely it had to happen at least some of the time.

His eyes found the Marshal sitting atop his chair on a raised platform overlooking the ring. Cold eyes appraised him as the healers wrapped his shoulder with bandages. As the healers finished their hasty work, Longreen gestured to- the Herald?

The Herald looked nearly as nervous as Grim felt. As Grim staggered to his feet, he was announced the victor of the round. Grim made to leave the circle and find a stiff drink to dull his shoulder’s searing pain. Then he heard his name called, followed by Rafe. He blinked. Was this the final round?

The Herald soon answered that question, announcing it as such. Grim watched as the healers dragged Flat-face’s corpse from the ring and Rafe appeared a moment later, a scowl written across his face. He came to a halt a few paces from Grim, waiting as the corpse was removed from the ring.

Rafe looked back to Grim. “Well, that was bloody stupid of you. How do you expect to put up even half a fight against me?” He frowned. “I was actually kind of looking forward to walloping you, but now it’d just be sad.”

Grim attempted a grin, but it came out as a pained grimace. “Sorry to disappoint,” he muttered.

“Begin!” the herald roared, but they both ignored him.

Rafe shook his head, lowering his voice. “Would you believe that the moment after you slashed that man’s throat, Cassandra Longreen approached me, offering a quite tidy sum for your head?”

“An enticing offer?” Grim asked.

“Positively tantalizing. Could fuel a solid year of debauchery,” he said.

“Only a fool would pass that up,” Grim commented.

Rafe grinned. “I’ve been accused of many things but rarely cleverness,” he said as he leveled his blade at Grim.

Grim sighed, raising his own as Rafe backed a step away, flourishing his blade into a heroic pose straight out of a painting. “Avast thee foul Rillman,” Rafe cried in a voice so shrill it made Grim wince.

“The light of Venar shall never fall while the sun still rises!” he screamed into the crowd with the tone of a child demanding sweets.

Rafe turned to Grim and threw his sword at him with a decidedly womanly scream. Grim watched as the blade spun past him far to his right.

Rafe shook his fist at Grim. “Fie! Fie!”

Grim stared at the man, hardly believing he was doing this.

Rafe fell to his knees, cursing the heavens. “Have at it, you dog! End this!” he yelled, ripping open his gambeson to reveal the exposed flesh of his chest beneath.

Grim was tempted to let him keep going just to see what he’d do next. Instead, he sighed, took a step forward, and lightly tapped Rafe on the head with his blade.

Rafe cried out, slapping a hand to his head as if staunching a gaping wound. “Goodbye cruel world,” he cried, letting himself fall to the dirt.

The ring was dead silent. The Herald seemed almost too afraid to speak as he stepped forward and cleared his throat, shooting awkward glances to the Marshal. The little man took a deep breath before speaking, “The winner of the competition is Grim Thorne!”

No applause sounded. Not a single word came from any lips until Rafe leapt to his feet, grabbed Grim by his good arm, and raised it above their heads. “Ladies and Gentlemen- our champion- the Lion of the Ring- Grim Thorne!”

He cheered his own proclamation and awkward applause sounded a moment later. Grim would have shoved him away if his wounded arm hurt less. A moment later, Rafe let Grim’s hand fall, and he nudged him. “Not bad, eh?”

“You’re insane,” Grim muttered.

“A hazard of being sober too long,” Rafe said, “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to fuck off to the wine table.

Grim stared after Rafe for a moment as he left the ring, a swagger in every step. His eyes drifted to meet the Marshal’s gaze. The man was staring at him appraisingly. Beside him, his wife seemed on the edge of violence, her gaze lined with razors.

Grim bowed, hiding his pained yet satisfied smirk.