Nightbred(31)

Once the bare bones had been put in place, Lucan summoned his own men, who had oiled and packed down the dirt, adjusted the lighting, stocked the cabinetry, and designated the areas to be used for training and practice bouts. While walking through the completed lists, Lucan doubted any other suzerain or seigneur under Richard Tremayne’s rule could boast of having five stories of wide-open fighting spaces for his garrison’s use.

Tonight the men who were not on duty or out hunting had gathered on the first level, where training evaluations customarily took place. As Lucan entered through a side door, the guard standing inside straightened and bowed.

“Wait,” Lucan said as the guard prepared to announce his presence. He studied the rows of broad backs directly blocking his view of the demonstration area. “Has someone issued a formal challenge?”

“Aye, my lord,” the guard said. “’Twas from the visitors’ side.”

Warriors in strange territory seldom picked fights on their first night among the jardin’s garrison. Whoever had started this had plenty of nerve—or was an utter fool. “Which one made the challenge?”

The guard looked uncomfortable. “Their leader, my lord.”

Lucan’s brows rose. “How interesting. He must have been on his best behavior when I received them.” He reached for a hooded cloak hanging beside the door and pulled it on. “Stay here and say nothing of my presence. And for Christ’s sake, do not bow when you agree.”

The guard’s eyes widened before he composed his features and nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

With the cloak and the shadows obscuring much of his appearance, Lucan was free to join the crowd of men observing the bout. In the center of a rough, wide circle drawn in the dirt battled two warriors with short copper-clad swords. Both had stripped to the waist, their bodies blooded from glancing wounds that had already closed and vanished. From what Lucan saw, neither had gained an advantage; with their Kyn strength and ability to heal spontaneously they could fight for hours.

His men and the visitors had divided themselves on either side of the circle, and cheered loudly whenever their comrade struck or evaded a blow. Although such bouts were generally fought with some reserve to avoid the infliction of serious injury, the two men hacked at each other with the kind of ferocity seen only on the battlefield.

Sutton, a halberdier who had joined the jardin shortly after Michael Cyprien had granted Lucan the territory, displayed his expertise with the short blade by delivering a series of punishing parry and thrust combinations.

The visitors’ man, the bullish warrior who had introduced himself to Lucan as Vander, moved with surprising agility for his size. It spared his neck from being skewered by the blade, and lent him the speed and position required to deliver a sideswipe that bit deep into the guard’s thigh.

Several of the visitors cried out in one of the old languages for Vander to finish the work, but instead of pressing his advantage, the warrior stepped back and lowered his blade. “Is there no one among this herd of boys to match me?” He scanned the scowling faces of Lucan’s garrison. “Or do you all waste your nights swilling wine and swiving wenches while your lord tag tails after that fickle female of his?”

As angry mutters grew loud around him, Lucan turned to Piel, the warrior nearest to him. “Give me your blade.”

“Before I have a go at him? Piss off.” Piel glanced down at the black velvet glove Lucan extended, and cleared his throat. “Ah, forgive me, Suzerain, I did not see—”

“Blade. Now.” While Piel drew his bastard blade from its simple hip sheath to pass it to him, Lucan stripped off his gloves. The blade had some decent weight to it, and had been maintained with a razor-sharp edge. “Nicely balanced. Turner’s work, I presume?”

“Aye, my lord.” Piel appeared ready to choke. “Do you mean to kill the braggart yourself?”

“I wouldn’t need a sword for that.” Lucan pushed his way through his garrison to the front. Before he stepped into the circle, he spoke in a low voice to two of his guards. “Graydon, McNeil, come and take Sutton to the infirmary.”

The two men hurried out to lift the wounded Sutton between them and carry him away. The rest of the garrison, now aware of Lucan’s presence, fell silent.

“Look at this brave brute here,” Vander called to his comrades in the same old language they used. “Twice my size, he is, yet he won’t show his face.” As the visitors laughed, Vander craned his head, trying to see inside Lucan’s hood. In English, he asked, “Come to give me more to carve up?”