Kushiel's Dart

Joscelin's tense stillness that he'd landed a bolt that stung. "What do you say?" he asked two of his comrades, bluff and boisterous. "Give me a hand, eh, and we'll skin this wolf-cub of his drabs, see if he's a bitch after all, shall we?"
    I stopped playing, and looked at Gunter, hoping he would stop it. Alas, he was bored enough to see it as good sport.
    So it was that Evrard the Sharptongued and a handful of thanes set upon Joscelin, intent on wrestling him to the ground and stripping off his clothing. Of their intent, I've no doubt; how it played out was another matter. The moment the first hand closed on his shoulder, Joscelin was on his feet, a stout length of branch in each hand.
    It was the first time, I believe, they had occasion to witness him fight in the Cassiline style of combat. The edge of Joscelin's skill had not dulled; if anything, the weeks of hard labor and smothered rage had honed it. He fought with calm, deadly efficiency, the impromptu staves moving in a blur, whirling and warding. Within moments, the rest of the hall was in an uproar, thanes rushing into the fray and staggering back out, clutching bruised limbs and battered skulls.
    I understand some little about the two-handed Cassiline fighting style. It is designed to afford the most protection to one's ward, making an armed human shield of the wielder. With no companion to protect, Joscelin grimly protected himself, holding nearly the entire fighting force of Gun-ter's steading at bay for a goodly amount of time. For his part, Gunter watched it with the same interest he'd shown when they first captured Joscelin. It took some seven or eight men to bring him down at last, muscling with brute force past the reach of his staves and bearing him to the floor, where he continued to thrash as they roared with laughter and tugged at his clothing.
    I had drawn breath to shout, though my mind was empty of words, when Gunter did it himself, raising his voice to a bellow of command.
    " Enough !" he shouted.
    He had mighty lungs; I could swear the very rafters trembled. His thanes grew still, and allowed Joscelin to rise. He gained his feet, disheveled, his clothing askew, fair shivering with rage-but to his credit, he stood his ground, crossing his arms and bowing stiffly in Gunter's direction.
    If anything, it was that which saved him. Gunter took on his canny look, drumming thick fingers on the arm of his chair and looking thoughtfully at the infuriated Evrard. "So you claim injury of this man, eh, Sharp-tongue?"
    "Gunter," Evrard said with bitter eagerness, quick to take the bait, "this carl, this slave of yours, has made a cuckoo's nest of this steading! Look," he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Ailsa, "look how he woos the very women from under our noses, into his servile embrace!"
    "If there is wooing being done," Hedwig called, casting a direful glance at Ailsa, who sniffed, "look to yon vixen, Gunter Arnlaugson!"
    It got a greater laugh than Evrard had done. Gunter rested his chin in one hand and gazed at Joscelin. "What do you say of it, D'Angeline?"
    If Joscelin had learned anything in Gunter's steading, he had learned somewhat of how the Skaldi measure such things, and the vocabulary with which they speak of them. He tugged his garments into order and met Gunter's gaze evenly. "My lord, he questions my manhood. I beg your leave to answer him with steel."
    "Well, well." Gunter's yellow brows rose. "So we've not drawn the wolf-cub's teeth, eh? Well, Sharptongue, I nearly think he's challenged you to the holmgang. What do you say to that?"
    I knew not this word, but Evrard paled at it. "Gunter, he's a housecarl at best! You cannot ask me to fight a slave. I will not stand for the shame of it!"
    "Maybe he is a carl, and maybe he is not," Gunter said ambiguously. "Waldemar Selig was taken hostage by the Vandalü, and he fought their champions one by one, until they made him their leader. Do you say Waldemar Selig was a carl?"
    "Waldemar Selig was no D'Angeline fop!" Evrard hissed. "Do you mean to make a mockery of me?"
    "Oh, I think no man will mock you, for fighting this wolf-cub in the holmgang," Gunter laughed, glancing around the hall. "What do you say, hm?"
    Rubbing their bruised parts, the thanes met his query with dour glares. No, I thought, none of them would make mock of the challenge. Gunter grinned, slamming his fist down on the arm of his chair. "So be it, then!" he announced. "Tomorrow, we will have the holmgang!"
    If they did