give beneath his knuckles. Morhane slumped. Garn whirled to face Mar Lon.
The bodyguard’s sword cut a gleaming arc. Garn lurched toward it, prepared to duck under and bolt for the door. The blade curved abruptly inward, slapping into Mar Lon’s gauntlet. The last thing Garn expected was for the guard to hit himself. Surprise stole his timing. And, when Mar Lon grasped the blade, lashing the hilt in a full stroke for Garn’s head, it caught him fully off his guard. Steel crashed against Garn’s temple. White light exploded in Garn’s head, stealing thought and vision. A sensation of falling trickled through to him. Then darkness pounded him into oblivion.
CHAPTER 3
Béarn’s Justice
Garn awakened to an agony that throbbed through his head and the significant, but lesser pains of his injured arm, wrist, and fingers. Not daring to move, he assessed his surroundings through closed eyes. He lay on a stone floor warm from his body, and he recognized the linen touch of his tunic and breeks against his skin. He felt the familiar, heavy pinch of shackles around his wrists and ankles. He tensed at the restraints, even that simple movement flashing pain through his head. Nearby, he heard another man breathing. Other noises wafted to him as well, distant and muffled by stone: an intermittent, wailing moan; clanking metal; and garbled voices with Béarnian accents.
Cautiously, Garn opened his eyes. His blurry gaze found bare stone walls and a single oak door, bound with brass. Between him and the exit, Mar Lon crouched with his sword drawn. He met Garn’s stare, saying nothing.
Garn struggled to a sitting position, hindered by dizziness as much as by the fetters that clamped his hands together behind him and the shackles that encircled his ankles. He exaggerated the difficulty these gave him, using the time and movement to test their strength. The bonds would hinder escape, but they could not prevent it. He had worn manacles the day he broke Captain Rache’s back, and the weighted steel had only added power to his blow. The memory of that incident remained vivid in Garn’s mind, though the rabid sense of triumph that had accompanied it had soured. Then, they had fastened his arms before rather than behind him. And Rache had hurled himself in front of the strike to protect Santagithi’s other captain, believing himself quick enough to avoid Garn’s hammering fists. It was the only time thatGarn knew Rache to misjudge an opponent, and it had cost the Renshai the use of his legs. Now, in a dark, squalid corner of Béarn’s castle, Garn hoped Morhane’s personal guard would also underestimate him.
“Who do you serve that Morhane’s gold can’t buy you?” Mar Lon studied Garn intently, and Garn returned the scrutiny. The guard wore mail beneath a tunic of blue decorated with the tan bear that was Béarn’s symbol. A cap with a royal blue plume identified him as an officer, and he still wore the leather gauntlets. Garn could see why a man who wielded his sword by the blade might need to protect his hands. The thought made him frown, the facial movement causing another wave of pain. The ex-gladiator had raised dirty fighting to an art form, yet he had never seen such a technique, not even from the master swordsman, Colbey.
And why should I have? Like me, Colbey fights to kill. What possible purpose could this guard have for hitting me with the hilt instead of the blade?
Garn tried to assign reason to action, but the blow to his head muddled his thoughts.
Little experienced with conversational conventions, Garn let the pause hang long beyond propriety before answering. He spoke in the same tongue Mar Lon had used, the Trading language. “I don’t
serve
anyone. And I never will.”
Mar Lon looked perplexed. He kept his sword drawn, the blade resting across one knee. “What’s your name?”
Garn declined to answer.
Mar Lon’s face creased further. He tried a different tack. “I’m Mar Lon. I’m the current
The bodyguard’s sword cut a gleaming arc. Garn lurched toward it, prepared to duck under and bolt for the door. The blade curved abruptly inward, slapping into Mar Lon’s gauntlet. The last thing Garn expected was for the guard to hit himself. Surprise stole his timing. And, when Mar Lon grasped the blade, lashing the hilt in a full stroke for Garn’s head, it caught him fully off his guard. Steel crashed against Garn’s temple. White light exploded in Garn’s head, stealing thought and vision. A sensation of falling trickled through to him. Then darkness pounded him into oblivion.
CHAPTER 3
Béarn’s Justice
Garn awakened to an agony that throbbed through his head and the significant, but lesser pains of his injured arm, wrist, and fingers. Not daring to move, he assessed his surroundings through closed eyes. He lay on a stone floor warm from his body, and he recognized the linen touch of his tunic and breeks against his skin. He felt the familiar, heavy pinch of shackles around his wrists and ankles. He tensed at the restraints, even that simple movement flashing pain through his head. Nearby, he heard another man breathing. Other noises wafted to him as well, distant and muffled by stone: an intermittent, wailing moan; clanking metal; and garbled voices with Béarnian accents.
Cautiously, Garn opened his eyes. His blurry gaze found bare stone walls and a single oak door, bound with brass. Between him and the exit, Mar Lon crouched with his sword drawn. He met Garn’s stare, saying nothing.
Garn struggled to a sitting position, hindered by dizziness as much as by the fetters that clamped his hands together behind him and the shackles that encircled his ankles. He exaggerated the difficulty these gave him, using the time and movement to test their strength. The bonds would hinder escape, but they could not prevent it. He had worn manacles the day he broke Captain Rache’s back, and the weighted steel had only added power to his blow. The memory of that incident remained vivid in Garn’s mind, though the rabid sense of triumph that had accompanied it had soured. Then, they had fastened his arms before rather than behind him. And Rache had hurled himself in front of the strike to protect Santagithi’s other captain, believing himself quick enough to avoid Garn’s hammering fists. It was the only time thatGarn knew Rache to misjudge an opponent, and it had cost the Renshai the use of his legs. Now, in a dark, squalid corner of Béarn’s castle, Garn hoped Morhane’s personal guard would also underestimate him.
“Who do you serve that Morhane’s gold can’t buy you?” Mar Lon studied Garn intently, and Garn returned the scrutiny. The guard wore mail beneath a tunic of blue decorated with the tan bear that was Béarn’s symbol. A cap with a royal blue plume identified him as an officer, and he still wore the leather gauntlets. Garn could see why a man who wielded his sword by the blade might need to protect his hands. The thought made him frown, the facial movement causing another wave of pain. The ex-gladiator had raised dirty fighting to an art form, yet he had never seen such a technique, not even from the master swordsman, Colbey.
And why should I have? Like me, Colbey fights to kill. What possible purpose could this guard have for hitting me with the hilt instead of the blade?
Garn tried to assign reason to action, but the blow to his head muddled his thoughts.
Little experienced with conversational conventions, Garn let the pause hang long beyond propriety before answering. He spoke in the same tongue Mar Lon had used, the Trading language. “I don’t
serve
anyone. And I never will.”
Mar Lon looked perplexed. He kept his sword drawn, the blade resting across one knee. “What’s your name?”
Garn declined to answer.
Mar Lon’s face creased further. He tried a different tack. “I’m Mar Lon. I’m the current
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