Corin, not a messenger or a foot soldier or even Lord Blackfell, stood outside the castle gates in the pre-dawn light. Niel had the drawbridge lowered, but kept the portcullis down. He approached the lattice of oak and wrought iron, and paused a foot from it, hand on his sword. Half his men were waiting in the yard behind him, a few others standing sentry on the wall. The rest were asleep, having stood sentry all night, or having drunk themselves sick from the castle’s wine stores. Ayla had still been fast asleep herself when he withdrew from the bed. And she’d still been asleep when he fetched clothes from her room and brought them back for her, so that she would have something fresh to put on when she awoke.
That was good. It had given him time to prepare for today, to focus when he’d have rather been distracted by her.
He watched Corin assess him, and the view through the grate, before his brother slowly approached. Corin stopped a pace backfrom the portcullis. Niel kept his mouth shut and waited for his brother to speak.
“He agreed to duel,” Corin said at last, “but not on fair terms. So that’s out. I can satisfy the rest, and I will petition to see him jailed, in time, instead of the duel.”
Niel did not even have to consider this to know he was not going to accept it. Not without the chance to fight Ditmar.
“What were his terms for the duel?” he asked.
“He’d have a sword and you would not.” Corin said. “He’s a damned coward.” There was anger in his brother’s eyes.
“What about other weapons?” Niel was best with a sword, but it wasn't his only weapon.
“Unarmed,” Corin clarified. “You’d be unarmed. He knows he cannot beat you otherwise.”
“Armor?” Niel asked.
“None for either of you,” Corin said sharply. “That was as far as I could make him concede. But you can’t be considering this. It’s madness.”
Itwasmadness. One blow from a sword was enough to kill a man or maim him for life. It didn’t even take much strength, just a good swing. Ditmar would have reach on Niel, and Niel would only have bare hands against a weapon that could sever his head or slice open his gut.
But he didn’t have to survive the fight. He just had to make sure Ditmardidn’t. He’d never dueled the Lord of Blackfell; Ditmar had not attended the princess’ tournament last spring, where Niel had won the unicorn cloak. But Ditmar had no great reputation as a warrior. It was decades since he’d won his shield, and as far as Niel knew, he’d done nothing with it after he retreated to Blackfell to rule his lands.
Niel, meanwhile, had been tournament champion out of an array of the kingdom’s best knights, and he’d very nearly been sword champion, too. Maybe on a different day, he could havebeaten Corin at that. It had been a close fight between the two brothers for the winner’s title.
They were the sons of the Duke of Eyron, and there were few men, if any, who could even touch them in close combat.
He could kill Blackfell with his bare hands. He could killmostpeople with his bare hands, if he wanted to.
“I’ll do it,” Niel said.
Corin stared at him with open-mouthed horror.
“Niel, no. Have you lost your mind?”
“Death comes for all of us. I’d rather it meet me in a duel than a traitor’s noose.” Put that way, it felt quite simple to him.
“But we could avoid both,” Corin hissed, drawing close to the portcullis and laying one gauntletted hand on the grate. “I will fight to see you exiled instead of killed. I know you hate me, Niel, but let me do this. Let me make penance for it all.”
Niel’s mind was made up.
“No. I want to duel him.”
“He is notworthit.”
“But she is,” Niel answered simply. “We have a deal, then. My men aren’t mistreated and the lady goes free. You get the castle and the Ashbrin back.”
He could see Corin’s jaw tense as his brother thought through this for a moment in long silence.
“If you would just—” Corin started.
Therewasa part of him that knew he was being impulsive. A part of him that wanted, desperately, to live, and to let his brother work out terms with the Queen that would see Niel banished instead of dead.
But he had gone into this war expecting death. If he could not be Hannes’ end, he could at least be Blackfell’s. He’d promised to Ayla that he would kill her tormenter, time and time again, and he would not break this promise to her. The only path for Nielnow was simply to walk into the storm, head high, and meet his fate in battle.
In some ways, it would be a relief for the siege to end. No more agonizing over his men’s fate and his own mistakes. No more pacing the wall, feeling like a trapped rat surrounded by a pack of baying terriers.
