Chapter 20

Boyle, tried to project confidence that he didn't quite feel as he reviewed with Rowan and Oddtus for the last time what his arranged role was in the madness that was about to occur. Somehow, despite his growing nervousness, he kept his head held high and somehow a smile on his hard-edge but still round face. In the trials of the last seasons, the formerly stocky lad had replaced most, if not quite all of his flab with honest hard muscle. His eyes, like Rowan's and Gwenda's, were black pits of anguish, regardless of their actual eye color, that showed to all that their lives had been one of pain and hardship, and that many of their companions and friends and fallen to their dooms by their feet. They spoke of death, and the willingness to see yet more blood shed, if need be.

"Implacable!" That was the Viscount's first instant opinion of Rowan, as the two men sized each other that mid afternoon in the wide green and pleasant gardens of the Imperial Palace. Indeed, most of the nobility had shown up at the court dueling circle to watch the legendary swordsman dismantle yet one more overly confident young lad. Somehow, this time, he wasn't quite so self-assured, and his friends by his side in turn also saw something different in this new challenger. The lack of anger, or even fear ... or of even any kind of emotion whatsoever.

The young lad already had a swirl of controversy and countless rumors around him in court and a thousand improbable stories of his heroicness had already spread. Single-handedly he had killed entire armies, and even the hard-faced woman at his side whose favor he now wore on his arm, was reputed to be a sword-mistress herself. Probably a demoness straight from hell, who supplied her infernal power to her illicit mortal lover. Looking at her malevolent gaze, the Viscount wasn't quite so sure that the rumors had been mistaken. Even the large young straw haired warrior that was his second for the duel, next to the gléaman in full colorful motley and bells that was now whispering into his ear, looked like a man who could be an extremely dangerous adversary.

His uncle, the great Arch-Bishop of the church, had been equally unhappy with the rumors that he had heard, and earlier had advised his nephew into taking some caution, for just this once.

"Gart, I like little what I hear about this renown young warrior Rowan, and fear even greater the infernal sword, which he admits to bearing. Do not let him use this against you, for little but do I fear the waning powers of the Banished, but still some sort of vile wickedness might have given from them, much to the bane of the world. I like this not, and had rather wished that you have not given mortal offense by the seizure and ill-use of his ward, since as her acknowledged champion, he must now challenge you for her return or be forever dishonored! Indeed, force him to do so, so that the choice of weapon will be entirely yours. Prevented from using his infernal blade, he can weave no further wickedness, until it can be safely stored and ultimately destroyed, in the good hands of our church. Even should this duel somehow fail to take place, or have an unexpected or unhappy outcome, I feel that it is necessary that the full martial weight of our order be taken again this man, and the unspeakable evilness that he bears!"

Now, facing the man in person, the Viscount now shared his uncle's uneasiness, and for once he doubted the lack of wisdom and unashamed boldness that induced him to capture and so violently deflower and further ravish the noblewoman, Ayleth. While he didn't quite regret his actions, he rather now wished that this particular duel could be avoided. Indeed, despite the urging of his companions, he resolved that he should accept the challenge first, to more safely steer the outcome more favorably.

Boyle, on the other hand, was equally determined that the wicked Viscount would be the first to yield to the pressures of honor, and in collusion with the Foole, together they had devised a plan suitable for obtaining every and all possible advantage to Rowan that could be mustered.

Now that the parley of the seconds had begun, the smiling but grim lad was determined that he was going to put the over-confident nobleman completely out of his game plan. Indeed, it didn't take long for the insults to come, hot and heavy.

"What rabble is this I see before me?" The Viscount snarled. "Nothing but artless footlickers, unworthy even for the ill-shod boots of the Boar-Men, whose prowess in battle these youngsters have quite fled, seemingly in pants-wetting terror! These misbegotten and malodorous sheep-humping duchymen indeed have few qualities to recommend them, save that they did possess enough courage to attend our little gathering, having not the wit to take sail to back to their own flea-bitten shores. Truly, they art very ragged warts upon my very sight, and I would much rather that these currish hedge-born bladders go relieve themselves elsewhere, and apart from the sight of men and women of gentle birth! Fly young fools, and consider yourself chastised, and unworthy of my eyes, for the horrid image of thee doth quite unfix my hair!"

"Quite nicely and artfully spoken for thy wit is indeed a most weak sauce, and poor fare indeed for such as strapping man as myself." Boyle cheerfully replied, having been well rehearsed for his role by the wise Foole. "Indeed, in falsehood you would bait us, but such simpering is womanlike, but alas yet your weak attempt at a beard forbids me from interpreting you as such so. Indeed, His Grace, the Viscount is so much removed from words of honor that I need think thou never wast ne'er at all anywhere near those sacred fields where grace, duty and honor were summoned. Thrice would I deem you a greater fool than even that of my gléaman, for thine wits are clearly befouled, as you are naught at all but a scullion of a flesh monger, and a coward of one at that, too befuddled with ego or strong drink to prey upon even a yeasty hair-goblet of a strumpet, straight from the stews, but instead seizing upon a Lady of noble birth and lofty rank and station from thy very doorstep, like an ill-timed delivery of horse-apples, yet more maggot-pie for thy dark and shameless soul. Indeed, I am quite sorry that such meager meat is unworthy of carving. As a duly knighted nobleman of Everdun, and liege lord of young master Rowan, a useful man, but one of no rank or title of his own, I cannot allow him the pleasant pleasure or duty of challenging you. Much as I can see that this thought cheers you, for your over-red face doth betray thy fear, marking you well as but a lily-liver'd roaring boy!

Enraged beyond endurance, the Viscounts thick fencing leather glove did quite strike Boyle full in the face. By all the formal rules of the Code Duello, a challenge had indeed been formally made!

"Face my blade, you frothy jolt-headed brazen-faced gudgeon of a fool with no wits than your Foole! For I shall see you struck dead for the insults to my honor that you have plied upon me!"

"As for your honor, there is little enough of that to be concerned about. I shall cast what little exists of your honor against the stones of this courtyard, so might its bleeding be an object lesson to others. By your honorable codes of duello, as a nobleman who has been challenged, I am permitted to select a champion of my own to represent my personage and defend my honor, for it is indeed unseemly for a pair of noblemen to be seen brawling like common cutpurses, as if fighting for the very dingleberries off of a poxed harlot's ass. Accordingly, I shall select Rowan of Swanford. As the challenged, it shall be with my champion's sword that he shall tend to thee, and return you to a baser state than thou already art, but dust under a tomb, forgotten save for a tale told by the gléamen of how ignobly the wicked perish.

In fury, the Viscount had to be restrained by his companions from running Boyle right through on the spot with his slim dueling blade. The rules of the Duello Code had been confirmed by the Emperor himself, and were most firm, especially for a nobleman of the highest stations. He realized that he had been tricked, quite out-maneuvered by this young knight, undoubtedly due to the wiles of the gléaman, to be rejected from any direct assault upon the Lady's champion, but to instead find him facing that same man, but in defense of the honor of another different nobleman.

As the courtyard cleared to allow the two duelists to face off against each other within the stone circle, the evil Viscount whispered for his friends and companions to settle the score with the impertinent young knight, right after he finished off the grim faced lad. The lad might be a dangerous foe, but he couldn't have much, if any, experience in duels, a more formal ritual of sport rather than normal mundane combat.

With his slight dueling sword, little thicker than a river reed, the Viscount danced upon his feet and with blinding speed charged inward with a vicious lunge that should have skewered Rowan straight through his very heart, instead in but a casual swipe of his greater sized sword, the lunge was blocked down by the now slightly burning blade, which quite easily sliced through the slimmer dueling blade completely.

His favorite dueling sword ruined, Gart had to settle for another dueling sword offered by one of his friends. With that new blade in hand, he suddenly tried a complex stomp, slash and thrust routine that would have impaled the vast majority of his opponents, but once again the infernal blade cut away this new blade as Rowan casually parried the slash, long before the fatal thrust could be made.

This was more than a little disturbing to the Viscount, who once again selected a slightly heavier and firmer blade that was offered to him, only to find that this weapon as well was quite inferior to the infernal metal of Rowan's blade. At last, he was forced to select an even heavier blade still, one that was not at all to his liking or comfort. While he still felt himself to be the superior swordsman, he was now fighting a much different sort of duel than he was used to, using a awkward and rather uncomfortable larger and heavier weapon that constantly maladjusted his timing and sword stroke combinations.

Furthermore, the implacable look on Rowan's face continued to eat away at the nobleman's nerve. In every other previous duel, his opponent had either been over-confident of their ability, and soon defeated by technical skill, or else had been defeated by their fear from the very moment they had entered the Duello Circle. This lad displayed no such concerns at all, and he too gently floated around the circle staying mostly on defense, but making no ill-considered moves and failed each time to enter into traps that the more veteran swordsman had set for him.

In fact, it was the Viscount who was becoming increasingly angry! His borrowed sword quite weighted upon, costing him extra energy to keep on the constant attack. Already he could feel a slight ache in his elbow from the considerably extra weight of the unfamiliar weapon. He made a note to himself to practice much more often with heavier training weights to build up extra muscle, instead of his normal training that emphasized quickness and speed, using his flimsier dueling foil. This lack of training preparation was now costing him, as sweat began to flow from his brow. As for his opponent, he swung that great infernal sword as if it was weightless, blocking, parrying or dodging every move the Viscount made.

Already this duel had lasted longer than any he had ever fought before, and the murmurs from his friends, lackeys and assorted friends in the court began to grow louder.

"Stop playing with the bumpkin and just finish him off!" His uncle cried out, becoming equally disturbed with the lack of progress his nephew had made in the duel, and in fact it was Rowan who soon carved the first blood, as he spun in a complicated maneuver of parries, designed to allow him a quick offensive slash of his own, without danger of reply, along the right side of the nobleman's upper thigh, just below the hip. The gentle flames mostly cauterized the wound, but it stiffened on him nearly immediately and made the Viscount's next clumsy offensive thrusts even more easily parried.

The murmurs of confusion now became cries of alarm from his concerned audience, and sudden for the very first time, the cruel nobleman lost his confidence. Resorting to desperation, he feigned the start of an especially vicious attack and then pretended that his wound hurt him more than did as he completed the attack move, and moved instead into a weak defensive position to blatantly protect the injured leg. Rowan was not at all fooled. Gwenda after her earlier wound leg at Ruromel, had pulled the exact same trick on him repeatedly, until he learned how to use her sudden defensive to offensive thrust against her, for a proper counter-attack of his own. As the now off-balance nobleman lunged forward to commit himself to his sudden thrust, Rowan had already darted quite aside from the over-extended thrust, and was swinging in turn with a massive strong slashing attack that the Viscount had no hope of parrying. The infernal sword bit deeply, well into the nobleman's ribcage, and through to his very spine, near cutting the wicked warrior into half. Falling in a spray of blood to the rocky ground of the dueling circle, the Viscount never looked up again to see the next cutting blow of the cut that completely severed off his noble head.

Stunned and astonished, the entire audience watched the demise of their most feared and respected swordsman, defeated, seemingly casually and with no concern or regard. The flames of the sword burst a bit higher into the air, to burn and cleanse away the blood of the fallen Viscount, like a burnt offering made to the Gods, and everyone present stepped well away from the lad, unwilling to even meet his implacable eyes, which dared the nobleman's friends and former companions to step even a single foot forward to avenge their master. None did.

Boyle then, his cheerful face as happy as ever, then turned to address the crowd, which was rapidly beginning to disperse in obvious fright and near-panic.

"As winner of this duel, as so aptly accomplished by my champion, I understand, by the rules of the Code Duello, that a great portion of the late and unlamented Viscount's estate is now due to me. As I understand that the late Viscount does not have any acknowledged children or heirs, that I may have now, by right of conquest, the right and even the duty to assume the Viscounts title and such parts of his lands that are not taken by the Emperor, about two-thirds I believe of the estates, am I now entailed. Is this not so? Can anyone speak otherwise?"

No, the frightened audience of noblemen and women knew the law well, and as claimed, the Viscount had no acknowledged family, other than his uncle, the Arch-Bishop, who was also expressly forbidden by Imperial and church law to inherit land in his own name. Even with the Emperor taking his usual one-third inheritance fee, Boyle would still be one of the largest land-holders of the empire.

Upon his demand, the Viscount's cloak and wallet were produced, bearing the emblem of d'Bournyss family, which Boyle now formally put on, announcing his acceptance-oath of the family titles, lands and other material possessions. That a rude young Everdun lord could manage such a usurpation of Alderian rights was unthinkable and probably intolerable, but it was all unfortunately entirely within Imperial law, and a not uncommon result of the Code Duello. Like it or not, this upstart knight was now a Viscount of the realm.

In yet another even greater surprise, the new Viscount Boyle announced before sworn witnesses that he intended to file a stewardship charter with the great temple of Árfæsliss, whose works he very much admired. Granted custodianship, rather than actual ownership of these lands would make the temple wealthy and more than well respected once again. And their many charitable deeds could now be increased. The High Priest, present and silently watching from the rear of Rowan's party, stood forward to accept Boyle's oath. The formal papers would be prepared later and soon signed afterwards, but with the oath-taking, the majority of the task of the actual land transfer had been accomplished. In fact, a rather complicated but efficient arrangement was granted giving the temple full stewardship over all of the lands, with Boyle receiving half of the rentals and other fees.

The formal stable boy, knighted by the Duke of Everdun, was now a very rich Aldarian Viscount, but no one doubted that the cheerful lad would be changed at all by his new wealth and power.

First however, before anything else was done, it was time to march up to the former Viscount's great estate, up upon the hillside, to rescue the Lady Ayleth, as the former wicked nobleman's friends and associates, now with great fear for their very lives, assured Rowan and Boyle that the Lady Ayleth should still be in fair health, but that swiftness should guide their feet as their former master had accepted an enormous payment for the captive noblewoman just before he had left for court.

A good many of the former retainers of the Viscount offered in turn their services to Boyle, to be their new accepted lord, but he refused them all. To each he tersely commanded that they each had until sunset to leave the city and to exile themselves forever to their remotest country estate, or else he would send Rowan, or even worse, Gwenda, after them. The evil smile she gave as Gwenda kneeled over the dead Viscount to smoothly castrate and defile his corpse, quite indeed frightened most of the minor noblemen nearly just as much as Rowan's awful sword.

Unfortunately, the simple and straightforward rescue of the Lady Ayleth soon became anything but that. To a man, the simple guardsmen of the household immediately swore allegiance and loyalty to Boyle upon his arrival, and upon his orders they prepared the household for siege, and in the nick of time. Already the numerous arms-men of the Yfelde Soð temple were gathering, and soon the streets outside of the Viscount's house were running ankle deep with blood.

The young Earl who had bought the Lady Ayleth from the wicked Viscount was present upstairs with a handful of his own personal guard, and together with the full dozen of the household officers and sergeants that had been taking sport with the Lady, they knew that they would receive no forgiveness, ever. They all fought quite to the very end, even over the battered, bleeding and unconscious form of Ayleth.

One particularly ill-minded sergeant placed a blade to her neck, promising to cut her throat if he and his pals were not given a safe path to escape outside. Gwenda just smiled and with a sudden motion too fast for the eye to follow she hurled a throwing dagger right into his eye, piercing his brain, felling the screaming soldier, who lived just long enough to feel next his sudden castration and his bleeding genitals thrust far down into his bellowing mouth, choking him to death.

Even the few that tried to surrender after this demonstration were cut down, and with no mercy. Boyle slew the panicking Earl himself, and with as little regard as he would a wounded rat.

Even a cursory search of the household possessions revealed a well stocked treasure room with many sturdy chests, including one new chest with the dead Earl's seal that was full of strings of gold coins, looped a hundred to each string, and there were several hundreds of strings. Other chests were well stocked with enough silver and gold to make even the baron's loot from Kenniford look like pocket money. A fortune that made even the weary gléaman's eyes widen with wonder.

Truly, the Viscount Gart d'Bournyss had sold the Duke's daughter for a literal kings random. Undoubtedly the misguided Earl thought that he had bought himself a sure path to a throne with a crown to wear upon his head. Instead, Gwenda had cut him down into small pieces, with a single small wound at a time. His head was now mounted up on top of the roof, on a spear ... complete with his genitals excised and stuffed into his mouth, which even in death, his face looked on with quite utter astonishment.

Slowly, the pressing gangs of soldiers loyal to the Justice God began to take over the streets and even begin to press their way into the house. Rowan and his infernal blade could not be everywhere, and Boyle's newly sworn and loyal men were heavily outnumbered and very sorely pressed, falling back inside the house finally even to the great staircase that led up to the Viscount's private chambers, where the Foole and Ashburn slowly tried to tend to all of the Lady Ayleth's wounds. The skin on her back had been flogged mercilessly quite to the flesh, and would prove to mend into another set of permanent scars that no normal healing could ever restore.