The Ritual Challenge

Thom ap Berengyr did not hurry back to the burned farm, and kept his troop to a steady trot. The king would be sharp with anger when Thom reported the news from the manor, and he had no courtly ability to sweeten the report. Evan had proved a level-headed and impartial ruler in the years since Rhodri Powys’ death. Still, his wrath, though seldom seen, was nothing Thom cared to provoke.

Bearing unwelcome tidings to Evan conjured up the expression on the king's face the night Rhys ap Dylan challenged Evan's right to the throne.

Thom relived the night, seven years in the past, as he rode.

~

Brynmor ap Brython presented himself as Rhys' champion, contesting Evan’s fitness to rule. Brynmor was a battle-scarred giant whose lank beard spread over his broad chest like a bear’s pelt. His father had well named him: ‘big hill.'

Brynmor swaggered to the center of the Great hall swinging his broadsword like a child’s toy, the razor-sharp edge whistling death’s hornpipe as he sliced arcs through the air.

“Evan ap Rhodri is a man grown, but not the eldest of his line!” Brynmor bellowed.

The war band, lords and freemen were packed like kindling in the Great Hall. Hard sleet dashed at shuttered windows as torches fought the mid-winter drafts. The baleful flickers cast shadows across the faces in the throng.

“Evan of Powys is scarce-proven in battle!” Brynmor shouted. “Unproven in wisdom! The Comrades of Powys deserve an older head, a wiser one!” he bawled as he wheeled into a fighting stance. His eyes glittered above his gap-toothed sneer, anchored by greasy, fleshy lips.

“The law of the Comrades says it is not enough to be the king’s son to inherit a kingdom! It says only the best man may rule! And that man is Rhys ap Dylan!" There was a smattering of applause from the men close to Rhys. The warband stood silent as they waited for the challenge to end.

Most would dispute that the son of Rhodris' long-dead brother--Dylan--had a true claim. Rhys' reputation as a warrior was middling at best and his judgement depended on the heft of a money bag. But any man of the ruling line was entitled to dispute the election of a new king. Rhys' money, however ill-gained, had bought him supporters and a skilled warrior.

“How much do you think Rhys paid Brynmor?” Prydd ap Powel, the small, wiry man the troopers called ‘Serjeant’ asked Thom.

“A lot,” Thom said as he looked to the dais where Evan sat with the elders. Evan, three days from the grief of burying his father, watched Brynmor without expression.

Evan’s gaze strayed once to consider Rhys, who stared back with a satisfied smirk. His dark features echoed Evan's. Kinsmen, yes, but comrades? Thom doubted they could ever be that.

“Evan, son of Rhodri! Name your champion!” Brynmor roared as his voice rang through the Hall. As Thom watched, Evan’s neutral expression changed: he saw resignation, even regret but under that a hint of contempt, and for the first time in Thom's experience, a look of proud, merciless wrath.

“No one champions me!” Evan shouted; he stood and threw down his fur-trimmed cloak.

Shouts of protest rose as a dozen or more war brothers pressed forward to offer their swords in Evan’s service. The edling had no duty to respond to a dispute. The war band would be shamed if Rhodri's son paid with his life for a service they could have rendered.

Gryffyd ap Maraud, the graying, venerable household captain, roared and waded into the crowd, arms swinging. His many sons surrounded him and held him back. They dispatched the burliest of the brothers into the fray, bearing Gryffyd’s sword. The man had wasted away to near death during Rhodri’s last illness; he was no match for Brynmor.

Thom searched the sweating, heaving crowd for Lord Gareth. He found him near the hearth, with Lord Owen. Black murder blazed from Gareth’s eyes but he made no attempt to step in as Evan’s champion. The edling had told him of his intentions, then.

“Were you shriven before Mass, Brynmor?” Evan asked, as his sword hissed from its scabbard. The long blade, patterned after those of the Norse raiders, balanced easily in his hand. Arcs of refracted light splintered from the intricately engraved silver hilt.

“Damn all priests!” Brynmor spat, baring his teeth and crouching to crash his sword pommel on the floor. “Come on, boy! Let me lead you to the gates of Hell!”

He swayed a bit, as if to stay balanced.

“He’s drunk,” Thom said.

“Well-oiled,” Serjeant agreed. “Drunk is good; the edling stands a chance.”

They turned as Evan jumped from the dais to the floor, his booted feet as light as a cat’s on the rushes. The crowd shifted back to clear fighting room.

Brynmor pounded his sword hilt rhythmically on the floor, shouting Rhys’ name. His supporters took up the cadence and crashed their boots as one, voices rising with bloodlust.

“Rh-ees! Rh-ees! Rh-ees!”

Evan unclasped the torc on his neck, the symbol of kingship. He kissed the heavy gold circlet, then threw it to Gareth. The edling’s cousin caught it and nodded. Lord Owen leaned to speak into Gareth's ear, plainly steadying him.

“Hard to speak clearer than that,” Serjeant said, as a hundred other voices began to speculate.

“Rhys is a fool. If Evan wins, that sly whoreson Rhys loses all hope. And if Evan dies…” Thom looked at Gareth, whose eyes were fixed on Rhys. “The man will never see the sunrise.”

The war band began to shout down the challengers’ clamor, spears and boots thundering on on the floor.

“Pow-ys! Pow-ys! Pow-ys!”

Clearly, Evan's war-brothers felt no need to separate his name from that of the kingdom.

He paused to survey the company, then his tall, muscled frame bent as he knelt, his sword point-down as he made the sign of the Cross. Reflexively, hundreds of arms around the Hall echoed the gesture.

Then a roar arose that shook the rafters. Brynmor had launched himself at Evan while the edling was still at prayer. The giant leapt with startling speed across the Hall, his sword cleaving directly for Evan’s head.

But Evan was gone. With a swift roll, Rhodri’s son was up and behind Brynmor; his sword flashed as he stood, then he sliced a thin line across the back of Brynmor’s grimy tunic, barely touching the skin. Howling with rage, Brynmor came about and swung his broadsword hard.

Evan parried as Brynmor came at him with a flurry of fast, powerful blows, falling back before the giant’s onslaught. Thom strained to see over the shifting, shuddering, roaring crowd.

Evan was forced farther and farther down the Hall, his blade flashing up and about him as he parried again and again, the shock of each blow shivering into his arms.

“The edling cannot take much of that!” Serjeant yelled in Thom’s ear. “He has not the strength!”

“I know!” Thom shouted. “He’s letting the fool wear himself down!”

The words proved prophetic. Evan withstood a half dozen more blows before he spun on one heel. Brynmor nearly fell as he swung wildly at the place Evan had been an instant before. Facing his opponent as he turned, Evan shook the hair from his face and beckoned with one hand. Brynmor bellowed as he charged but Evan feinted and dodged and the giant swung wild yet again. Evan circled and Brynmor blustered, sweat running down his face as he hurled obscenities at the edling.

“Brynmor’s good straight-ahead, plowing his way through the battle!” Serjeant shouted to Thom. “But there’s no method to--”

His analysis was lost in a crescendo of cheers as Evan darted under Brynmor’s stance and cut the underside of the man’s sword arm. An arc of crimson blood spurted in the blade’s wake.

“First blood!” The cry rang out as brothers of the Powys Guard pounded each other on the back, exultant.

“He’s hit an artery!” Serjeant cried. “I always said Evan could fight! Gryffyd taught him well!”

Brynmor ignored his wound and renewed the attack, his lips drawn back in a rictus of rage. Swords clashed and Brynmor stumbled forward, swinging hard, but Evan swivelled and cut him across his shoulder.

“Whoreson!” Brynmor bellowed in pain and frustration. “Stand and fight!”

Evan had no breath to spare as sweat rolled down his face. He flexed his hand around his sword-hilt, eyes narrow as he searched for an opening. Weapons clashed with a metallic scream as Brynmor attacked and Evan blocked another flurry of blows. The heir was one of the tallest men in Powys but he looked like a stripling next to Brynmor's lumbering bulk. The pace of the man's attack slowed as fatigue set in. Then Thom saw Evan's chance.

He darted under a high, wide slash, hitting the floor and rolling, stabbing his point deep into Brynmor’s thigh. The giant screamed and staggered, as a gout of blood spouted over his breeches. He swung blindly to his flank.

The flat of his broadsword connected with Evan’s shoulder. The force threw the edling to the floor and helped the giant right himself.

Evan scrambled to regain his footing, sword gripped one-handed and then Brynmor was on him, screaming murder. The edling cradled his left arm to his side as he scrambled to evade Brynmor’s attack, parrying the giant’s powerful blows as best as he could.

“Broke the collarbone,” Thom said hoarsely, his mouth suddenly dry.

Serjeant nodded, breath hissing through his teeth. The Hall went silent, every man shocked into watchfulness.

Brynmor swung, lost his balance and slipped in a puddle of his own blood. Evan saw his opening. His blade snaked between his opponent's arms, and slashed Brynmor's right arm from elbow to wrist.

The giant howled. His assault stalled as he tried to grip his sword but his hand was powerless, the muscles and tendons destroyed. His great chest heaved in labored gasps.

“You are dying, Brynmor!” Evan shouted as he circled, his linen shirt plastered to his chest, every muscle clearly defined. “Once, there was a day when you served Powys well. Yield now, and we can send for the priest!”

Brynmor looked at Evan's crippled arm and shook his head. “Come here, boy,” he hissed through black teeth. “Your Da's waiting to greet you in Hell.”

Evan shook sweat-soaked hair from his face, his eyes contemptuous even as he offered mercy. “One more chance. There's more of your blood on the floor than in your veins.”

“No,” Brynmor growled, his face pale under the grime as he transferred his sword to his left hand. “Now,” he cried, brandishing his blade. “Now, we fight fair, you and your little boy shoulder!” He launched himself in a shambling rush but Evan slipped to one side, evading the attack with ease.

It became a fool’s chase as Brynmor’s strokes became wilder and weaker, the edling biding his time while the man's lifeblood drained from his body. The giant finally swung too hard and far. Evan slid in and hammered Brynmor's left arm. The resounding crack of shattering bone cracked through the Hall.

Brynmor screamed, his arm reduced to a gleam of white bone and shattered, bleeding flesh; tendons pulsed in his throat as his sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. The giant teetered for a long moment, one bloody hand clutching at his mangled forearm, before his knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor.

Thom let out a whistling breath as he watched the blood flow from Brynmor’s many wounds, slower now, the turgid stream black on the floor. The air in the Hall quivered as every man waited for the death angel.

“Rhys,” Evan's voice, raw and grating, broke the silence. Every eye turned to Rhodri’s son. Evan stood as if sculpted in granite, gaze locked on his kinsman. Rhys gazed back coolly.

“Perhaps…” Evan said as he dragged in air. “Perhaps you care to finish your champion’s work?”

Rhys shook his head and raised his cup. “I cede the title, Kinsman.”

“LORD KING!" an enraged voice shouted. Gareth shouldered his way through the press, a tower of fury. “Address the King as your Lord!” He raised his sword, aching to strike.

“For certain,” Rhys replied. “My apologies. I cede the title…” he looked at Evan. “My Lord King.” With a courtly bow Rhys slowly drew his sword and dropped to one knee, the hilt offered to Evan.

Evan looked at him for a long moment, then wiped the blood from his sword onto his breeches before returning it to its scabbard.

“Brynmor. Do you want a priest?”

A strangled oath emitted from the man's blue lips.

Evan stepped into the lake of blood, gleaming black in the flare of the torches. Kneeling, he drew his dagger with his good hand, and passed it slowly before Brynmor’s face.

“So you want to die unshriven,” he said, before he plunged the blade deep into the hollow of Brynmor’s throat. “Go, then.”

Evan twisted the knife sharply. Brynmor's body bucked and spasmed. The new king held the blade hard while the giant's eyes rolled in panic. Flexing his wrist, Evan drew the blade across the man’s throat. Blood spouted briefly and a strangled gurgle forced its way from the riven windpipe. Brynmor’s heels drummed on the floor, then he lay still.

With a touch as tender as a mother’s caress, Evan wiped the blade across Brynmor’s face, leaving the mark of the Cross, then wiped it on his breeches. His chest labored as he stood, tucked the dagger into his belt and looked at Rhys.

“Kinsman,” he said. “Go home. Take your friends with you.”

Thom watched as Evan turned on his heel, followed by Gareth and Owen. The lords, troopers, and freemen parted like the Red Sea as they strode out of the Great Hall.

~ ~ ~

Thom came back to the present at the sound of his troop’s horn. They had arrived at the farmhold. He shook the memories off with a muttered curse, slapping dust from his breeches as he dismounted.

There was no help for it. He handed his reins to a waiting trooper and went to find the king.