The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

martyr is worth a hundred live rabble-rousers. Make sure the people remember me and not Moncriith and his demons.”
    He turned abruptly and walked to a place near the center of the field, his troops behind him, Kammeryl’s army before him, and the crowds of camp followers and neighbors lining the hillsides around the field. The people of Coronnan cleared a circle for the two combatants, roughly one hundred arm’s lengths across.
    Kammeryl rode his magnificent steed to one side of the cleared space. He pulled the crowned visor down on his helm and loosed his sword. No king would attend a battle carrying a lance, pike, or ax. Only a sword symbolized the honor of a man who ruled.
    A common soldier from Kammeryl’s ranks rushed up to Quinnault, offering his own boiled leather helmet. Not much protection, but better than nothing—the offer more valuable considering the source.
    “Take it, Quinnault. Please take it. And the breastplate the next man offers,” Myri whispered, clutching Nimbulan’s arm so tightly she nearly cut off the circulation to his hand.
    “Interesting that the offers of assistance come from my enemy’s army,” Quinnault said, that half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He donned the borrowed protection. Three men rushed to help him with the buckles of the chest and back leathers.
    Myri stepped forward to help. Nimbulan held her back.
    “The Stargods control the outcome of this duel, Myri. We can only watch,” he replied, patting her hand, but not loosing her fingers. Somehow he needed that slight discomfort to remind him what these men fought for.
    “You can armor him with magic, Nimbulan. A thin bubble that no one else can see,” Myri pleaded. Her eyes never left her brother.
    “If I could, I would. This must be a battle between the lords. One of them must prove his right to govern by the outcome of this battle. If I help now, then Quinnault’s victory or defeat will be mine, not his. If he uses his own magic to protect himself, then the victory or defeat will be for magicians and not Quinnault. No one must interfere.” Sadly, Nimbulan pulled Myri close against his chest. “You don’t have to watch.”
    She drew her face away from the protective folds of his formal robe. “I must watch. I must know the moment of his death or his living.” She turned within the circle of his arms, resolutely facing the field of combat, filled with anger and fear.
    “You will do anything to win, Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Even entering single combat asteed while your opponent has no mount or armor,” Quinnault taunted. “Your honor will be in question for as long as you live. As well as your prowess at arms. Every lord with a strong companion will know that you are afraid to face me, an untrained warrior, a former priest, on equal ground.”
    Kammeryl snarled an incomprehensible animal sound of fury as he kicked his steed into a full charge. The visor restricted his vision. Quinnault neatly sidestepped out of the path of the white steed. At the last moment he dipped his sword and severed the saddle girth. The tip of hammered steel nicked the steed’s side. The animal reared and screamed. Kammeryl lost his balance as his saddle slipped and gravity dragged him toward the Kardia. He was too skilled a rider to fall, dismounting lithely at the last moment, sword at the ready, visor pushed back for better line of sight.
    Quinnault widened his stance, grasping his sword with both hands. The blade did not waver. But Nimbulan saw the tension in his neck and in between his eyes.
    The first blow from Kammeryl came quickly, without warning. A powerful downward stroke meant to split open his opponent’s thin leather helmet and his skull beneath. Quinnault blocked the blow, and the next, never having time to recover and strike one of his own.
    Slash and thrust, duck and parry. Quinnault led Kammeryl in an exhausting and dangerous dance around the circle. Slash, thrust. Sidestep, jump, and roll. Blow after blow, they wove their way around the circle once, twice. A third time.
    The older, stouter warlord breathed heavily, but still he pressed the younger, more agile lord to his limits.
    Quinnault parried another blow and retreated closer to the silent watchers. His aura remained closed. Nimbulan couldn’t read the man’s emotions or physical state. But then, he never could. Kammeryl stepped forward, raising his sword for another strike. His aura seethed with red-and-orange fury. Black spots surged and