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"I told you to kill him!" Sandra whispered fiercely.
"And I will," he answered. "After I kill the Bear Lord, tomorrow."
He turned his head, conscious of her slight moan, and met Eric Larsson eye-to-eye. "Tell the Bear Lord that the Lord Protector of the Association will meet him tomorrow with destrier and armor, shield and sword and sharpened lance, at noon between the armies. This fight to settle our differences as men, and not to bind our armies; and there will be a general truce until sunset."
"Agreed, my lord," Eric Larsson said.
He bowed again, made a precise turn and walked out to his horse. It had waited with perfect discipline until he returned; it swiveled in the instant his foot found the stirrup, and he rode it into a canter as it left.
Field of the Cloth of Gold, Willamette Valley, Oregon
September 4th, 2008/Change Year 10
Signe handed him his lance. Mike Havel looked down at the fierce, beautiful face with its little nick at the bridge of the nose and smiled.
"Thanks," he said. "See you in about half an hour, I think."
"Kill him, Mike," she said.
"Hey, that's the general idea, alskling," he said, his smile growing into a grin. "We'll be out of this stinking armor and back in bed at Larsdalen inside a week."
"That's a date, buster!" she said.
The other leaders were there, but they left the last words to his wife; he nodded to them and set the lance-butt on the toe of his right boot. There was no point in using the scabbard behind his right hip; he wouldn't be taking his bow to this encounter.
Yeah, gotta beat him on his own terms for this to work properly.
It was almost precisely noon, the sun overhead to minimize advantage to either side. And it was a hot day for the Willamette country, in the eighties; clouds were piling up on the western horizon over the distant Coast Range, like taller mountains of cream and hot gold to match the blue-white Cascades. Soon the fall rains would start, softening the land for the fall plowing and planting; right now the last sun of summer baked pungencies out of earth and horse and man. Dust puffed up under hooves.
A low rumbling spread across the front of the allied army; everyone who didn't have inescapable duties was out today, drawn by dread and fear and hope, protected by the truce. It built to a roar as he cantered Gustav out into the open space. The Protectorate's force was there as well, a dark line across the stubblefields a mile north. Their cheering was more regular, and as their lord emerged from under the black-and-scarlet ba
The two men cantered forward, meeting midway between the armies; the roar was still loud, but muffled to the point where ordinary voices could be heard. Arminger's coif didn't cover his mouth; not surprising, since he'd be pla
"Ten years since we last met, isn't it, Havel?" Arminger said.
Mike gri
There were lines graven on the angular face across from him that hadn't been there back when he'd come through Portland so soon after the Change; partly just age, but partly stress too, he judged. It couldn't be easy staying on top of that snake pit he'd built.
I'm going to kill you, he thought coldly. Not least because you're still playing a game, college boy. I'm a working man, and fighting's just another job I do to keep my family fed and safe.
There were none of the melodramatic threats or boasts he half expected, the I'm-going-rape-your-wife-and-feed-your-children-to-dogs; the man had learned control since they last talked. Though of course he'd be quite capable of doing anything of that sort.
The Lord Protector simply nodded. "One of us, I think, will not leave this field alive," he said, and turned his horse.
They continued until they were about a thousand yards apart. This was no tournament with rebated lances, or even a outrance, and there were no heralds or trumpeters. Each horse reared and came down moving fast, building speed in lines of dust across the reaped grain stalks. The black-armored figure grew with shocking speed, only a pair of eyes visible on either side of his helm's nasal bar, and the shield expertly sloped. Arminger wasn't a kid jagging out on testosterone and dreams of glory; he was a man not long past his physical peak, trained to a hair and immensely experienced.
So, gotta think outside the box, went through him as the lancehead came for his life.
Then: Crack!
He caught the lance on his shield, just. The force of it punched him back and sideways, out of the saddle. The ground came up and hit him with stu
"Pain is weakness leaving the body," he muttered to himself. "Shit. Let's go, Marine."
The lord of Portland managed to get himself free of the high, massive saddle, but at the cost of abandoning his shield beneath it; the Bearkiller would have been on him while he pulled and tugged otherwise. He drew his heavy dagger with his left hand instead, holding it point-up with his sword overhead, hilt-forward. His eyes fixed on the limp Havel couldn't quite keep out of his walk.
"You swine," Arminger said with quiet sincerity. "You aimed at my horse. Deliberately!"
The northern army seemed to share its lord's prejudices; a huge chorus of hoots and groans came from them. Laughter and roaring cheers came from the allied host behind him.
"Why is it," Havel said, gri
"Haro! Portland!"
"Hakkaa Paalle!"
The longsword flashed down. Crack and the curved leather of the targe shed it, but he didn't overbalance, and the smashing punch of the Bearkiller's backsword caught on the dagger. The hilts locked and they strained against each other for an instant, face panting into face in a perverse intimacy.
Christ Jesus, he's strong! Havel thought, as they disengaged and Arminger blocked a cut at the back of his knee, turning the longsword from the wrist like a ribbon-saber. Got the edge on me there, only by a bit, but it's there.
He'd counted on better speed and endurance, but the wrench to his hip was slowing him, draining away agility. The other man's lack of a shield would help-he couldn't just tuck his shoulder into it and try and overrun with a rush. It balanced out:
They circled, Arminger moving on the outside of the curve, Havel turning on his right heel. Engage, a flurry of strikes, back. The Portlander was breathing harder, sweat ru