Guardians of the West

no man's blood need be spilt over me." She put one hand on the rough stone of the parapet.
    "Oh, stop that," he said in disgust, "and get away from there."
    "Ah, nay, your Majesty." she said quite firmly. "This is the best of all possible answers. At one stroke I can avert this impending battle and rid myself of this burdensome life."
    "Nerina," he said in a flat voice, "I'm not going to let you jump, and that's all there is to that."
    "Surely thou wouldst not be so rude as to lay hands upon my person to prevent me," she said in a shocked tone of voice.
    "I won't have to," he said. He looked at her pale, uncomprehending face and realized that she did not have the faintest idea of what he was talking about. "On second thought, maybe it's not such a bad idea after all. The trip down to that courtyard is likely to take you about a day and a half, so it should give you time to think this all the way through -besides, it might just possibly keep you out of mischief while I'm gone."
    Her eyes went suddenly wide as what he was saying to her seeped ever so slowly into her mind. "Thou wouldst not use sorcery to foil my most excellent solution," she gasped.
    "Try me."
    She looked at him helplessly, tears coming to her eyes. "This is most unchivalrous of thee, my Lord," she accused him.
    "I was raised on a farm in Sendaria, my Lady," he reminded her. "I didn't have the advantages of a noble upbringing, so I have these little lapses from time to time. I'm sure you'll forgive me for not letting you kill yourself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go stop that nonsense out there." He turned and clanked toward the stairs. "Oh," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, "don't get any ideas about jumping as soon as my back's turned either. I have a long arm, Nerina -a very long arm."
    She stared at him, her lip trembling.
    "That's better," he said and went on down the stairs.
    The servants in Mandorallen's castle took one look at Garion's stormy face as he strode into the courtyard below and prudently melted out of his path. Laboriously, he hauled himself into the saddle of the huge roan warhorse upon which he had arrived, adjusted the great sword of the Rivan King in its scabbard across his back, and looked around.
    "Somebody bring me a lance," he commanded.
    They brought him several, stumbling over each other in their haste to comply. He selected one and then set off at a thundering gallop.
    The citizens of the town of Vo Mandor, which lay just beyond the walls of Mandorallen's keep, were as prudent as the servants within the walls had been. A wide path was opened along the cobblestone streets as the angry King of Riva passed through, and the town gates stood wide open for him.
    Garion knew that he was going to have to get their attention, and Arends on the verge of battle are notoriously difficult to reach. He would need to startle them with something. As he thundered through the green Arendish countryside, past neat, thatch-roofed villages and groves of beech and maple, he cast an appraising eye toward the gray, scudding clouds overhead, and the first faint hints of a plan began to form in his mind.
    When he arrived, he found the two armies drawn up on opposite sides of a broad, open meadow. As was the age-old Arendish custom, a number of personal challenges had been issued, and those matters were in the process of being settled as a sort of prelude to the grand general melee which would follow. Several armored knights from either side were tilting in the center of the field as the two armies looked on approvingly. Enthusiastically, the brainless, steel-clad young nobles crashed into each other, littering the turf with splinters from the shattered remains of their lances.
    Garion took in the situation at a single glance, scarcely pausing before riding directly into the middle of the fray. It must be admitted that he cheated just a little during the encounter. The lance he carried looked the same as those with which the Mimbrate knights were attempting to kill or maim each other. About the only real difference lay in the fact that his lance, unlike theirs, would not break, no matter what it encountered and was, moreover, enveloped in a kind of nimbus of sheer force. Garion had no real desire to run the sharp steel tip of that lance through anybody. He merely wanted them off their horses. On his first course through the center of the startled, milling knights, he hurled three of them from their saddles in rapid succession. Then