Ogdellos, seemingly surprised by his own prowess but inclined to take advantage, pressed forward at Deikmorn, who immediately slipped away again, with one hopeless wild swing for a leg that was easily dodged, just as Deikmorn figured.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting this,” Og said with a devilish grin. “I guess you got more hurt than anyone believed.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to dignify that?” Deikmorn asked incredulously. “Don’t act as if you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re a different kind of idiot than I always assumed, it seems. Quite an act. But the evening of odds won’t save you from the consequences of their attainment, whatever the results. Because. I. Know.”

  Ogdellos looked genuinely confused. “Your blather is what is idiotic. And tiresome!” He charged like an eagle suddenly freed to fly, unable to contain itself any longer — or perhaps the rare Moron Falcon, as it was pointlessly gambling away its actual advantages.

  There is no way he is so stupid-

  Deikmorn did a full defense maneuver, feinting a retreat and instead diving acrobatically under the blade in a roll. Against someone slower, he might transition into a backhander from behind, but Ogdellos was neither slow nor incapable of reacting.

  Despite his foe adjusting and spinning around, Deikmorn tried a quick, darting strike that just caught a shield and diverted upward, forcing Ogdellos to pitch back to avoid getting clipped in the face. He took a wild swing in response, which sadly Deikmorn could not forcibly block or parry to segue into a potentially fight-ending slip under the guard.

  I could gamble with the poison, but not only is it — maybe — gambling my life, I might fail to land a cut, and then I lose double.

  Instead, Deikmorn used the opportunity to dodge and fling his buckler hard at the sword from a hopefully safe distance, holding his breath and backing away so hard he risked tripping.

  The shield clanged into the sword hard enough to bounce. Because he was watching for it, Deikmorn could just see a mist or a cloud erupt outward from the impact. As he’d hoped, though, some of it blossomed in Ogdellos’s close vicinity, likely spraying arm armor primarily but it had to clip some of his skin somewhere, and he might even…

  Ogdellos paused right then and blinked in confusion at the maneuver, basically just standing in his own cloud of poison showing zero alarm, puzzled at why a buckler had been tossed and relinquished. “Uh, congratulations?”

  “Oh, thank you,” Deikmorn muttered, smiling as he continued backing away. “Thank you very much.”

  Just standing there breathing it in. He didn’t know. This complete buffoon had no idea the blade was poisoned. I suppose whoever set it up figured the worst case was the spray getting both of us, and the dynamic favoring the constitution of the younger man. Not untrue, either. It would. Meanwhile, that fucking blade is improved. He’s better with it than the shield! Alchemical, probably. But very well concealed…

  And so Deikmorn took the most logical tactic for one who knew about and completely avoided the poison: delay and wait.

  “Come on, damn you!” Ogdellos was soon calling as was led around. For one moment, he blinked, squinted, and shook his head, as if a bit woozy. “Stop running and fight! To think, the mighty Deikmorn has been reduced to a coward!”

  Deikmorn laughed. “When it’s aaall over, you’ll understand, boy. And regret and blame. Though I’m not sure who.”

  “I can’t stand you and your ridiculous riddles!” He charged. But Deikmorn was impossible to engage when he didn’t want to be.

  When Ogdellos slowed, it happened very suddenly, and his pursuit of Deikmorn became entirely doomed. Rapidly, he swayed, and then finally fell to a knee, trying to form some words of protest or accusation, but little more than a moan coming out.

  Deikmorn had precious little mercy for a buffoon. He didn’t belong in a leadership role at all, that was certain. However, he did belong on the battlefield where he was useful. For that reason and to avoid undying grudges, Deikmorn didn’t do what he could have with a coup de grace opportunity, which was to lift the neck wraps and slit the idiot’s throat.

  Instead, he did what he originally intended — he kicked the oaf onto his face, then ran his blade for a deep, nasty cut on the back of the thigh, ruining it and causing blood to bubble up immediately.

  Ogdellos’s cry of pain and the judge’s horn intermingled. “First Blood spilled! Deikmorn Brakka is the winner!”

  A ton of people stood and cheered, while various others hung their heads, obviously betters that had lost. Some others were watching closely, still, including the leaders. Disdain was on their faces. They knew something was rotten.

  Deikmorn just backed away as Ogdellos’s loyalists and the medics rushed in, the latter aiming to staunch the bleeding as quickly as possible.

  The judge called out, “No one touches the blades!” He quickly grabbed Ogdellos’s blade, then came to take Deikmorn’s. Deikmorn held his up to the crowd first, took a cloth to wipe it down the length, then displayed it, showing only blood and slight discoloration from sharpening oil.

  “No fucking poison, as you can see!” Deikmorn called. The crowd more or less gaggled about it, all one to another, in speculation.

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  The judge, wearing thick gloves, mimicked Deikmorn with Ogdellos’s blade — carefully. When he displayed the cloth, it was discolored black-brown with a strange, perhaps slimy smear. “Poison! I fear to even breathe in its midst! And the blade. The blade moves with guidance in my hand!”

  The crowd erupted with jeers and boos and cries of ‘Cheater!’ Among the leaders, there were many that were scowling. Not just at Ogdellos, either. Those most fiercely for Ogdellos were glaring at Deikmorn like he was to blame for the obvious, damning fall of their chosen one.

  What good is this, if we lose half the alliance?

  The judge blew three notes on the horn, and everyone quieted then. The judge and most of the entire population that had gathered suddenly turned to one soul, one last crown to top the event: Nyomel.

  Cowl still over her finely-robed figure, she faced the unequivocal winner.

  Deikmorn took a deep breath and smiled winningly, holding out his hand to her. “Come, then, dear. It’s all over for the great moron, Ogdellos.”

  She looked him in the eyes, her back straight, and then turned her back on him to stalk away through the crowd.

  There was a collective, nearly breathless gasp from the crowd, everyone caught in shock. Deikmorn was equally caught, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Finally, he dropped his hand and clenched it into a fist as he looked back over at the incapacitated Ogdellos, his wound wrapped and him being carted off on a stretcher.

  He stifled his anger and avoided the outburst he wanted to let out. He was no pup to lose his cool over some trifling intrigue, however much it stung his pride. Treachery was to be expected. Whatever happened, he had to remember why he had started into the whole charade in the first place: Puck. Puck and her desire to ruin Ogdellos.

  Nyomel arranged the poison. Somehow. Hedging her bets? Whatever the result, Ogdellos would end up looking like shit if the judge exposed him.

  When he finally looked up for Ogdellos’s loyalists, they were already gone. Most of the leaders had plainly ducked away to discuss what had happened.

  She is distancing herself from me, eh? So much for the big, bad war hero, Deikmorn Brakka.

  He caught a young woman staring at him so hard, it was obvious she was trying to get his attention. When he met her eyes, she smiled salaciously. She was a sumptuous beauty, in servant garb of some minor clan unfamiliar to him.

  Victory spoils. Perhaps later. For once, I’m not in the mood.

  Tossing the dueling blade in the dirt, Deikmorn grabbed his pack from the ground and stalked off, his face dark enough that everyone just cleared out of his way. Congratulations were still barked at him, just from a safe distance. He didn’t respond.

  He approached his tent carefully. Circled it, tried to gauge if anyone was inside, or if it had been meddled with. He took a monocle out of his pack to put on, to look for signs of curses, magical traps, and the like. Nothing.

  Finally, he went in. Allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  Someone came rushing through the tent, and he almost skewered them with his blade, drawn without thought.

  “Brother!” Heskar cried, his face drawn back from a blade nearly touching his nose. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Deikmorn snarled. “You idiot! How many times have I told you not to rush in on me!? And now, of all times?!”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Scoffing loudly, Deikmorn whipped his blade away, then stepped across the space between the entrance and his bed to drop into it amid its many plush cushions. The bed was a minor enchanted item that collapsed into a small box when not in use. A few of his lovers over the years had joked that they shared his bed just to share his bed, always the best in a camp. He’d hoped to be throwing Nyomel into it.

  Stop sulking, you old fool. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to kill her at this point. And he would, if he believed she wanted him dead. Perhaps not that, at least. But he ruled nothing out. It was a sad miscalculation if she thought she could. Others had made that mistake to their sorrow already.

  “Ah, Deik, Deik, Deik,” Heskar admonished. “I know that look. Tsk, tsk, tsk, you’ve done it again. You let an attractive morsel lead you around. When will you learn?”

  Deikmorn was grabbing a wine bottle as his brother spoke. He uncorked it and took a long, burning guzzle before meeting Heskar’s gaze. “Never.”

  Heskar chuckled. “Janisway will love this story. We’ll laugh until we’re rolling around on the floor.”

  “I’m glad someone is fantasizing about my wife.” He took another gulp of wine. “I admit, her laughter is a peach, though I can’t remember the last time I got her other peach. Anyway, home is a long way off, still.”

  “True. But what happens now? I don’t think you’re popular enough in this camp at this point to not lose a third with a clan consolidation under you.”

  “Ordinarily, someone in my position would do it anyway. Nyomel must know I’m in Puck’s camp and won’t necessarily take the petty route despite her treachery. Someone even slightly shrewd would have enough evidence there. How would I not owe her a favor?”

  Heskar nodded slowly but winced. “I don’t know about petty, Deik. She betrayed you and is owed a grudge. You should return it by some means.”

  Deikmorn looked down at the floor, scowling. He took another swallow of wine. Definitely getting drunk. “I play longer games, Heskar. You know that. So does she, I think. We’ll see. If necessary, her time will come.”

  “I understand, but-”

  Someone else brushed into the tent. It was the overly-attractive servant girl from before, in the crowd. She smiled at both of them.

  Deikmorn found himself returning the smile. Maybe I’m in the mood after all… “My brother, here, was just leaving-”

  “A mutual friend extends a message,” the girl interrupted with an apologetic look and a little bow. “A desire to meet in the tent under the gold ribbon, at the Witching Hour of Old, and a commitment to communicate all you wish to.”

  There is a brief bit more here, but the meeting will come back around after other scenes.

  Next Chapter...

  Checking in with a certain witchhunter. Orswyth & crew stand in for Sammy.

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