“That’s enough, Captain.” Dralan stressed the rank just enough that Laronnar understood his message. Much more easily than he had risen through the ranks, he could fall.
He could barely think through the rage and sense of injustice he felt. Dralan had never intended to honor his word. Never intended to give Laronnar credit.
Dralan regarded him with narrowed, laughing eyes.
Challenging his commanding officer in front of a tavern full of supporters was desperation. But Laronnar didn’t even try to pull back, to cool the fury churning inside.
Suicide, said an inner voice through the wrath.
He glanced at Kaelay. Just the barest tip of her pink tongue snaked out and moistened her lips. The pupils of her eyes were so dilated he could barely see the brilliant green.
Suicide. He was beyond caring. “The plan was mine!” Laronnar shouted. The words ricocheted off the high ceiling, came back to him, more satisfying than a victory on the battlefield. He felt suddenly, abruptly, as sober as if he’d not had a drop of ale in a month. “All the plans were mine!”
Dralan’s face transformed slowly, went from laughing to dangerous and nasty. Silently, deliberately, he placed his hand on his sword hilt.
“You’ve probably never planned a battle in your career.” Laronnar jeered. “Oh-except maybe the time you ambushed those gully dwarves!”
Though his face was rigid and pale with anger, Dralan extended his hand, offering a handshake.
“Come, Captain,” said Dralan coolly. “You know the rules.”
Laronnar knew the rules. He enforced them for Dralan. Brawling wasn’t permitted among the troops under Dralan’s command. Dralan considered brawling uncivilized. But a dispute could be settled with a gentlemanly duel.
Laronnar sneered at the proffered handshake. It might masquerade as the gesture of a gentleman, but it was an old trick-shaking the hand of an opponent with feigned gentility while checking for a hidden weapon. Keeping his gaze warily on his commander, Laronnar pulled out the cestus that he wore looped over his weapons belt and worked it onto his hand.
Made of stiff ebony leather, the top part of the glove was reinforced by steel mesh, elven made, as delicate as a spider’s web, as strong as chain mail. Razor edged spikes studded the knuckles.
With quick, deft movements, Laronnar slid what appeared to be a long dagger from its scabbard and flicked away the fake wooden hilt. What remained in his hand was a strong steel blade, three hands long, notched at the hiltless end. He jammed it into a slit in the glove, sliding it into a sheath along the top of his hand.
The metallic clicks were audible. The blade glinted blue in the torch light, as Laronnar flexed his hand, seating the glove onto his fingers. With deliberate slowness, he opened the catch that held his sword belt and allowed the weapon to drop.
Predictably, the gaze of everyone in the tavern, including Dralan, followed the fall of the sword to the floor.
Laronnar slashed inward with the blade that protruded from the back of his hand. His movement was sure, expert, so fast that Dralan stumbled back against the bar as the blade flashed past his face.
The commander recovered quickly and pushed away from the rail. He drew his sword. Pushing aside the draconian who was hovering at his elbow, Dralan stepped into a fighting stance. The crowd stumbled backward, clearing a space for the combat.
The two touched swords, gently, each testing the other’s blade. Steel rasped against steel. Through the cestus, the song of the two blades danced across Laronnar’s skin, skittered along his bones.
Laronnar attacked. Grasping his gloved hand with the other, he swung the blade at his commander with all his strength.
Dralan ducked out of range.
Laronnar allowed the force of the swing to wheel him completely around, used the momentum to carry him into another slashing sweep. Dralan met the blow, and their swords connected, clanged in the air with the booming peal of bells.
As Dralan swept back, his sword caught the wing of one of the hovering draconians. The knife-sharp edge sliced through the leathery webbing and green ichor sprayed from the wound. The draconian howled in pain and was dragged back out of Dralan’s path by a fellow lizard man.