Queen of Sorcery

the dead and the dying.
    "Stupid," Wolf muttered darkly.
    "No one I know of has ever accused Arends of brilliance," Silk observed.
    Mandorallen set his horn to his lips and blew a shattering blast. The battle paused as the soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He sounded his horn again, and then again, each brassy note a challenge it itself. As the two opposing bodies of knights galloped through the kneehigh, winter-yellowed grass to investigate, Mandorallen turned to Barak. "If it please thee, my Lord," he requested politely, "deliver my challenge as soon as they approach us."
    Barak shrugged. "It's your skin," he noted. He eyed the advancing knights and then lifted his voice in a great roar. "Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, desires entertainment," he declaimed. "It would amuse him if each of your parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you are all such cowardly dogs that you have no stomach for such a contest, cease this brawling and stand aside so that your betters may pass."
    "Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said with admiration.
    "I've always had a way with words," Barak replied modestly. The two parties of knights warily rode closer.
    "For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen chided them. "Ye will gain no honor in this sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?"
    "An insult, Sir Mandorallen," the noble replied. He was a large man, and his polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. "An insult so vile that it may not go unpunished."
    "It was I who was insulted," a noble on the other side contended hotly.
    "What was the nature of this insult, Sir Oltorain?" Mandorallen inquired.
    Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke.
    "Ye have gone to war over an insult which cannot even be recalled?" Mandorallen said incredulously. "I had thought, my Lords, that ye were serious men, but I now perceive my error."
    "Don't the nobles of Arendia have anything better to do?" Barak asked in a voice heavy with contempt.
    "Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard," a swarthy knight in black enamelled armor sneered, "but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his betters?"
    "You're going to take that?" Barak asked Mandorallen.
    "It's more or less true," Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, "since there was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin-twice removed. Since it's considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth."
    "Stupid custom," Barak grunted. "In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more enthusiasm than they kill strangers."
    "Alas." Mandorallen sighed. "This is not Cherek."
    "Would you be offended if I dealt with this?" Barak asked politely.
    "Not at all."
    Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. "I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim," he announced in a loud voice, "kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains."
    "The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the pig-sty kingdoms of the north," Sir Haldorin retorted coldly.
    "I find your words offensive, friend," Barak said ominously.
    "And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing," Sir Haldorin replied.
    Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy knight's helmet. Sir Haldorin's eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.
    "Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?" Barak demanded.
    "Gently, my Lord," Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the tall grass.
    "Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?" one of the knights in Baron Derigen's party demanded in a harshly accented voice. "Kill them all!" He reached for his sword.
    "In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight," Mandorallen coolly advised him.
    The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt.
    "For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen continued accusingly. "Surely ye know that by courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I