The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex by Robert Holdstock Page B

life. Colcu saw the slightly nervous glance from his opponent and let a smile touch at his lips.
    Fair-faced, pale-eyed, Colcu looked like the warrior he was determined to become, his hair limed white and stiff for that form of conflict that would most likely lead to death. He wore a loose leather battle harness, a grey-and-green kirtle with red-embroidered edges, and black bull’s-hide ankle boots. The sword at his right hip had an ivory-and-onyx grip, wound around with white leather. Colcu drew the weapon slowly—with his right hand, of course—and presented it to Kymon.
    No word had been spoken, but Colcu’s amused yet moody gaze had remained unblinking.
    Kymon passed over his own sword. The guardians received them, and the parties withdrew to their benches, for refreshment and instruction.
    The boy was anxious. “He has the marks of a torque on his neck,” he said to his father. “What does that mean exactly?”
    Urtha had already spoken to Vortingoros. “There was a raid on a hunting party in the wolf-glen, south of the hill. A while ago, now. Several of Vortingoros’s horsemen were surprised by a band of dhiiv arrigi. Colcu and two companions were among the party, and though they withdrew when the attack came, Colcu launched a sling-stone that killed the leader of the vengeful outcasts. It was a timely shot, and he is promoted in the order.”
    “Then why the contest with me?”
    “He still needs to go through the formality of the youth game. This is a good opportunity for you, Kymon, should you win the contest.”
    In the brief, shocked silence that followed, Kymon’s face turned from astonishment to outrage as he stared at his father. Urtha tugged nervously at his greying moustaches.
    “A formality?” Kymon said in a thin voice, and then at full volume, “A formality ? I am not a formality ! I am nobody’s formality. This is an intolerable insult.”
    “Not at all,” Urtha retorted. “It’s an excellent opportunity. How many times must I remind you: to keep your anger for when it can be used to full advantage. And always look for the opportunity in any situation.”
    Some way distant, there was laughter. Colcu and his escort of pale-featured youths had heard Kymon’s outburst and were mocking him. It had the effect of cooling the boy’s blood, concentrating his fury.
    “He’s tall and looks very strong,” Kymon murmured. “This will be a hard game. Hard to put the chin-cut on him from the vantage point of victory.”
    Urtha glanced at the tall chalk-haired youth, now parading barefoot and in his battle harness. “Yes. You are up against the odds. But remember: what to Colcu is a formality to you is a challenge that will earn you a line in the history of the year. There’s a bard watching us. He’s quite young, probably looking for some good verses, some good sneers and gibes. To be mocked or praised? That’s up to you, now. Make an opportunity out of a formality. Whatever happens, you will have received your chin-cut. Then the game can begin in earnest. And then—never forget—there will always be other bards!”
    Urtha embraced his son before helping the youth dress for the contest.
    *   *   *
    The cut on Urtha’s chin was so clean, so healed, that I had noticed it only when the faint scar caught bright moonlight, at a time when we had been in the snow-covered Northlands together. Even then, I had assumed it was a battle-taken wound. In fact, he had received it when younger than Kymon, though he had made the cut on his opponent first.
    Both Colcu and Kymon would receive the cut, each from the other, but to place the mark as the winner—the first to cut—would be remembered. It would also be remembered who had placed the second wound, the loser’s strike: Colcu would swagger through the final years of his youth, by all the signs, and Kymon’s appetite for age and honour would be severely blunted.
    Urtha could tell this. Kymon was taking his anxiety out in no uncertain terms