Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck Page A

discreetly at the periphery of his consciousness. Faren was there, resplendent in a white cloak, like a lordly snowman. The gold rings on his fingers flashed in the sunlight.
    â€œThe rules are simple,” Karl explained. “The field of honor is the village square. You go to the center, with Hobilar. Faren checks you both for magic, then asks if you still insist on fighting. If you say yes, then Faren says begin, and you try to kill each other. You stop when somebody dies, goes off the field, or yields.”
    Christopher wasn’t listening. They’d covered all this before. He was listening to the horse neighing, the fresh, sharp snow crunching under his feet, a lonely bird chirping in the trees.
    Hobilar was on the other side of the square, armored like a squat, thick beetle. He was alone, save for a huge brown horse. The villagers clustered in knots, leaving a wide gap between themselves and the knight. Hobilar saw someone and called out. The peasant reluctantly approached.
    Faren spoke to Christopher, quietly, for his ear only. “I will not ask you to risk yourself, nor hold your blow, yet if it is possible, try not to kill him. Unless it is possible that you have come to your senses and will yield.” The Cardinal turned away without waiting for a reply.
    Karl pointed him to the center of the square, and Hobilar trudged out to meet him. The two men stood ten feet apart, and Faren glided in between them like an angel.
    Faren asked with deep sincerity, “Is there no hope of reconciliation? Is there no peaceful resolution?”
    â€œI have done nothing wrong,” Christopher said thickly. “I do not ask for this fight. I hold no offense against Ser Hobilar.”
    â€œGive me my money,” Hobilar growled.
    The wind blew gently through the square, crept quietly across the snow, playfully ruffled the hem of Faren’s cloak.
    â€œNo,” Christopher said.
    Faren’s face radiated dismay. He chanted his prayer and studied both men carefully.
    â€œI pronounce you both free of magic,” Faren said. Christopher took off his cloak, dropped it in the snow. His armor and sword were now clearly exposed. Hobilar’s only reaction was a low growl of discontent.
    Faren backed up, perpendicular to the men. “Will you not yield?” he cried in desperation, although no one could tell to which man he was speaking.
    Hobilar drew his sword, hefted it. The metal scraped on the scabbard, the sound unmuffled by the snow. Christopher didn’t bother to draw.
    Faren stepped back again, now twenty feet away. “To arms,” he barked—angrily, sadly, bitterly.
    Christopher spun and bolted back the way he had come, running at full speed. Behind him he heard Hobilar laughing.
    He reached the edge of the square, threw himself to his knees facing the chapel. Hobilar roared behind him. Triumph and derision could not fully disguise the relief in his laughter.
    â€œHe flees the field,” Hobilar shouted. “Your dog yields.”
    â€œThe field is the square,” Karl was already countering, “he has not left it.”
    Both their voices were drowned out by Christopher’s shout.
    â€œIf this be your will, Marcius,” he raged, blaring the dulcet tones of Celestial jarringly across the snow, “then show me your favor!”
    Sparkling confetti appeared, showering the area around Christopher. It sank into the snow, leaving no trace.
    Hobilar’s roar changed tone, and he lumbered into a charge.
    Christopher was still praying. He whipped the katana from the scabbard, pointed it at the chapel.
    â€œIf this be your blade, Marcius,” he shouted, “then bless it!”
    The blade began to shine, a silvery sheen, painfully sharp to look at.
    Hobilar clanked and pounded behind him. Christopher sprung to his feet, spun around in midair, froze Hobilar in his tracks with an iron stare, their eyes suddenly manacled together. Now he could see fear in