It seemed like every man in the world had come to the battle. Luke looked behind him, all from Tranthrith in bunches, some more disciplined than others. Far to his right almost invisible in the distance the commander of the Borderland forces with his troops assembled down the hills that led from Stonebridge and Halfway House. To his left, nearly at Agor a loyal force of Athelea, and there would be more the other side of the town and towards the Forest but these would be vulnerable within the enemy zone and hard to muster. In front, maybe three to five leagues distant beyond the far branch of the river the enemy, there were many of them.

“How do we fare?” he asked Simen. Not a necessary question as he could work it out perfectly well but he needed the sound of someone else’s opinion.

“It seems we outnumber them. But not by much. It will be a bitter fight. To get to the land above Agor our men will have to ford the river, it is knee deep and in the shallower places it is muddy. That will be a disadvantage to us. We do not know if our weapons will be better but we have the advantage of experience in formation. That will win us the day even though many die.”

Luke recalled the night, ranging from camp to camp. There had not been battle songs, this time he wanted the enemy to be guessing at their numbers. The men had the enthusiasm of those defending their country, there could be no doubt of their spirit. The last two months for him had been an endless round of visits and rallies. If he started to wonder about his own enthusiasm for battle he willed himself into the business of the day, could not allow himself to be lacking.

“Bring them down. We’ll arrange formation half a league this side of the river.”

Tension ran high in the line of men as they were assembled in sight of the river bank. Only two leagues away they could see the enemy, just across the smaller far branch of the river, and down below the town was well defended by enemy troops. The supporting army from Treaty had almost finished their descent from the hills. Every man on Luke’s side daubed with a line of red clay across his forehead, so his side would be able to distinguish him in the fighting. Making him the more visible to the enemy, a spur to fighting harder. Luke himself wore a red headband peeking out under his helmet. He knew no one would let him down. As the sun grew and rose to its peak he ranged his gaze across the area between the two rivers that would present the battleground.

From the town a group of men emerged and walked between the two armies. Luke turned to Simen.

“Is this normal?”

“Yes it is normal. But it is exceptionally brave of them, it only takes a couple of madmen and the armies will rush at each other. Who is it?”

Luke looked at a man dressed in imposing brown and green robes with a black hat designed to make him look taller. No hint of red or blue. He walked with a heavy stick.

“That’s Morian. They won’t fight while he has the field.”

“Even so. Is he a hero or a fool?”

“I’ll go for hero, for the moment. He is the voice of the Elders.”

Morian stood in the centre of the ground between the rivers and shouted a single word. “PARLAY.”

“Does that mean you have to go in?” asked Simen.

“No. It means you have to go in.”

Simen looked dubious but got his horse ready anyway. “Do I take any message?”

“No. You will receive instructions which are the decision of the Elders. Just bring them back to me.”

Luke watched him fording the river, at the same time a horseman from the other side came from the far direction. They conferred with the man in the centre. Both then ran their horses back to the waiting commanders.

“There will be no fighting till the sun is past its peak. The message from the Elders is that they need time for conference. It is too big a battle and they are fearful many men on both sides will be killed. They say a country that fights itself in this way weakens itself too much.”

“Well they knew that a long time ago. How can they do anything now.”

“The sides are too well balanced. They are talking about a symbolic battle.”

“We could send in two handfuls of champions on each side. But it would not settle anything.”

“No. I have to go back now.”

Luke felt anxiety as his equerry rode back to the centre. The sun was high in the sky and there was not much time to take decisions. The men were waiting and it was easy for someone to become impatient. He fingered the heavy short sword at his side, he was the only one who even knew he had it.

Simen returned, his horse splashing once again through the river and starting to pant from the exertion.

“Marcos has agreed to a head fight. You must agree also.”

“What do you mean? Marcos has agreed? What are the terms?”

“The Elders say this is your battle. Athelea should not fight itself, this is between you and Marcos. They want a head fight. That way it is ensured you will not be able to fight each other again.”

“Because only one of us can leave the battle ground alive. How very cunning. The loser will be buried where he falls. And if either refuses they are forfeit and the day goes to the other. I wonder whose idea that was.”

“Will you accept, sir?”

“You are asking me to kill my own brother.”

“It is not I, sir. It is the message from the Elders.”

Luke looked at the sun, not so far from its peak. He looked at Simen.

“I always ask myself, what would Hartor say?”

“What would Hartor say, sir?”

Luke thought a short while. “He would get impatient with me and tell me to make my own decisions.”

Looking around he saw the men who loyally supported him. He knew many of them personally. Somewhere Toth and his brother would be armed and waiting, and earlier in the day he had spoken to both of Yan’s brothers. All the men of Trantrith, half of Athelea, volunteers on his side from the Borderlands, some from Elenea too. The Elders were quite right. He nodded at Simen.

“They say it will be on horseback, sir. Will you take this horse?”

“This is my horse. Trestren has a good temper, he is brave and strong. I will see to it he is not harmed. If I do not come back he is yours.”

“You will come back, sir, it cannot be otherwise.”

“That I cannot guarantee. But I swear one thing. If I don’t come back neither will he.”

Steadying the horse he rode to the edge of the water, it splashed through up to its knees then strode up the far bank. Luke sat up straight and stood the horse within sight of the men in the middle of the plain, awaiting instructions.

*

Four men stood to mark out the corners of a large open area. In one corner a small group of trees. At the far end one of them stood by the fence of a farm, Luke knew the owner. He was a friend of his father, had probably absented himself for the day. Maybe he was even up at Cano with Darios, both not fit for fighting and the old man in any case could hardly be expected to take sides. He could see his brother approaching. Like Luke he had chosen a hefty stallion, brown with a black tail. Unlike Luke and his understated red headband he was dressed in a blue tunic and hat. Of the remaining men one walked towards Luke and the other to Marcos, leaving Morian standing majestically on his own in the centre.

“Do you agree that this fight will be the order of the day, and the victor will have the right to the defeated army?”

“Yes, I agree.”

“The battle will be fought using horses and hand to hand if necessary. It will finish when one of the combatants is killed. Combatants may use one hand weapon.”

Luke divested himself of his pack and all weapons except the one concealed in his clothing. He could see Marcos doing the same.

“Move in and allow Morian to check you.”

Moving his horse a quarter of the way in to the field he watched as the high priest strode towards him. He remained mounted while Morian gave him instructions and asked to see his weapon. Taking the sword out he handed it over.

Morian examined the blade and winced as he cut his finger on the sharp edge.

“Morgrith,” he said softly.

Luke nodded.

Morian looked at him, he could not possibly take sides but Luke took it as approval and it gave him heart. He could have sworn he heard him say, keep it concealed as long as possible. But it may just have been his imagination.

Luke watched him stride back to Marcos and make the same checks and felt the unpleasant feeling of battle rising within him. The sun at its peak was warm, not hot, and there was no wind. Morian moved between the two horses then took twenty paces off to the side.

He announced in a voice that could be heard for a league around.

“BY THE ELDERS OF ATHELEA AND THE GODS THAT LOOK DOWN UPON US.

“TO THE VICTOR THE ARMIES OF ALL ATTENDANT.

“CRY ACCLAIM.”

Men on both sides shouted their assent in a great cry, both sides heavily confident of victory.

Morian took his staff and held it above his head, pointing to the heavens. Then he slammed it down flat on the earth in front of him to signal the start. Quickly pulling it back he moved another twenty paces to be well out of the way of the fighting.

*

Luke held his horse steady, faced the opponent from two lengths away. He did not want the horses to choose a fight against each other, they would dismount the riders resulting in a hand fight and he did not fancy his chances, weapon or no. Looking at his brother he did not like what he saw. A man of power determined to sweep away all who stood before him. He thought of all the times he had acted in Marcos’s favour and all the allies whose fortunes rested on the outcome of this fight. He looked at the other horse, working out how to steer so he could pass left to left, taking advantage of his brother’s weaker hand. He could feel the horse was ready, it had sensed something in its opposite number.

Marcos shifted his horse and expertly stepped to his left. Luke had no option but to do the same and they passed at a distance, out of reach of weapons. Circling round expecting a rush he saw the horse canter gently four or five lengths before turning and knew he would tire Trestren if he exerted him too much with sharp turns early on. Pulling him up he prepared for the second pass.

Marcos dictated the way the horses passed, favouring his right hand. It was going to be this every time. Luke could see he had prepared for this exact fight. He must have spies on the Council of Elders, to steer the decision on the battle this way. Too late to think who they might be. After four or five passes the horses started to get closer. Marcos’s metal sword had a reach that could swipe close to Luke before he could get a stab in. He hardly noticed the din from all the crowds surrounding the battlefield each time the horses approached each other.

The horses came close and Luke could almost feel the strike in his arm, bone and muscle tearing, but he knew the parry and avoided the danger, whipping his arm in a curve so the flat of the blade slid along the leather of his sleeve. As he recovered the horses clashed, rear to rear and he took the opportunity to draw his point against the flank of the other horse leaving a graze which immediately started to bleed in a thin line. Pushing the enemy horse away he regained his balance and moved to turn again.

A change in the noise from the crowd alerted him that Marcos had turned quickly and was on his rear. Galloping the horse away he retreated and turned in a wide arc, the other giving chase. Marcos keeping to the left so Luke wheeled his horse round full circle to the right causing the enemy horse to travel in a slightly longer curve and fall behind. Suddenly turning Trestren sharply to the right and slowing he at last found himself where he wanted, to the left of Marcos and facing the same direction, right hand to left. He pointed his sword in the air.

“Morgrith!”

Marcus flashed with his weapon and Luke parried with the metal edge. The blades struck so hard the hilt was almost yanked from his hand. As they separated he could see a huge gouge in Marcos’s softer metal. His own blade undiminished.

Taking advantage of his position he harried the enemy horse making feints and cuts and keeping Marcos in his place. Marcos reached out with a violent blow which Luke could only meet by leaning forward so that the strike was turned by the tough leather on the back of his coat. As Marcos recovered Luke flicked up and cut the back of his left hand just below the knuckles. Marcos shouted out and moved his horse away.

Luke could sense the other horse was tiring even as his own was finding the going heavy. He chased it down as well as he could, finding it easy now to stay on the left hand side. Marcos held his sword in the right hand, having to lean across the horse, it still presented a formidable obstacle. But he could not prevent Luke repeated jabbing the horse in its flank and it weakened and eventually stopped running.

“It’s over, Marcos. Your horse is finished.”

Marcos snorted, his anger showing through. “It’s never over. You are weak, Luke.”

Luke rode up to him, slashed and feinted, Marcos could do little to reply.

“Throw your weapon down.”

“You think this is going to end in surrender and a treaty? You learn nothing.”

Luke was wary enough not to get too close. He pulled his horse around so they were face to face. Threatening the other horse with his sword in its face, it shied away. Moving closer he forced it to edge back. Suddenly it reared up and dismounted its rider. Marcos sprawled on the ground, his own sword skidding on the earth.

Jumping down Luke landed on his feet. Marcos was already scrambling up and as he did so Luke slashed at his face causing him to stumble. He had no wish to be on the defensive against a strong warrior, this time with no soldiers to save him. Switching the sword to his left hand he leant down and as Marcos reached to grab his weapon Luke with one blow cut two of his fingers so that blood spurted out.

“Prepare youself,” he commanded.

Marcos responded by lifting his feet and giving a mighty kick. Luke grunted as the blow connected but he still had his weapon and gave a stab in the shin which penetrated so easily he thought he must have gone through the clothing rather than flesh, until he withdrew the blade and saw it covered with fresh blood. He retreated, knowing full well the danger of a wounded animal. Marcos lay heavily, got up as best he could. Luke kicked the sword away.

“Leave your weapon. It will not do you good. I will cut you each time.”

“Curse you Luke. You do not win by your skill, it is the favour of Trantrith. Why do you get all this? I have created a nation with my own hands. You had everything given to you without effort. Curse you. The gods will look down and see you unworthy. You are barely even a fighter. Just the brat who was born first.”

Luke looked down. His brother sat, hurt, maybe dangerous maybe not. He tried to remember the boy who had followed them into the Forest all those years ago, could not recognise him, then saw the willingness to break the rules, to cause trouble without thinking, and had less pity.

“Yield, Marcos, and have face in the eyes of your followers. You are wounded, you have only time now.” Luke looked at his brother’s face, selecting where to strike.

“Are you going to bleed me out like an animal? In the heart, Luke, where you’ve always done it. That’s where it hurts. You have not acted yet. Are you afraid?”

“You try and trap me. I know you want one more strike. Lie on your back.”

Marcos remained sitting so Luke walked round behind him, curling the sword round his throat to force him to the ground. Kneeling on his brother’s chest he looked in his face for the last time.

Marcos made one last attempt to free himself but it was weak and he knew the end was near. Luke looked to the crowd, as if to see a sign that he might be relieved and someone else carry out this duty, but all he could see was the silent expectancy of the troops. Aligning the blade in the right direction he thumped it down between the ribs and held it there till the life had wriggled out.