The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

And inborn dominance. The ylver didn’t have a specific classification of personality types, as expressed in auras, but he recognized the aura of a man born to command, and the strong aural fullness of one who did. He stopped in front of Cyncaidh. “My name is Macurdy,” he said. “I’m the commander of the southern alliance.”

Cyncaidh nodded gravely. “I am General Cyncaidh.” He gestured at the tent. “Step inside and we’ll talk.”

They went in together, Cyncaidh’s staff following. An orderly held a chair for Macurdy, as instructed. It would give Varia a view of him in profile, while avoiding any chance that he’d see an eye behind the spy hole. When everyone was seated, Cyncaidh asked, “Why have you come to us, Commander?”

“There were two things,” Macurdy said, “that I was supposed to do on this campaign. One was to punish the empire for laying waste to Kormehr, and for the Rape at Ferny Cove. The other was to get a treaty of peace to last forever, with a pledge of trade without tariffs, and an exchange of ambassadors. I’ve been told you’re the emperor’s chief counselor; I came to talk terms.”

Quaie snorted derisively, drawing annoyed glances from the rest of the staff and a sharp look from Cyncaidh.

“You understand,” Cyncaidh said, “that my authority is limited. Any terms we might work out will be tentative, pending the emperor’s signature. Who on your side needs to sign?”

“Just me. My authority’s good.”

In the name of all those kings and chiefs?! Even with the Dynast behind the man, Cyncaidh was surprised. And momentarily uncomfortable with it. It greatly expedited matters, but it felt—almost indecent for things to be so simple. “Are you hungry, Commander?” he asked. “Perhaps you’d like lunch first.”

“I ate in the saddle.”

“Then I suggest we begin an exploratory discussion now.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

One might almost be hopeful, Cyncaidh told himself. No arrogance, no posturing, no petty jockeying. He gestured at the men around the table. “While the authority here is mine, Commander, these lords may have questions or suggestions, or information to contribute, and they will witness any tentative agreement we may come to. On my left are Lord General A’raiel, Lord General Quaie . . .”

At Quaie’s name, Macurdy got so abruptly to his feet, he knocked over his folding chair, freezing the others where they sat. “You expect me to sit down with the Butcher of Kormehr? The Rapist of Ferny Cove?” He hawked, and spat on the floor. Quaie sent his own chair toppling backward then, hand on his saber hilt. Macurdy, in response, reached for his.

For just an instant Cyncaidh was dismayed, then realized that neither man’s aura showed rage. Macurdy’s showed what might be satisfaction, Quaie’s restrained glee. Cyncaidh understood Quaie’s motivation: the man was famous as a fencer, a master of the saber.

“My lords!” he said sharply, “control yourselves!”

Each man stopped short of drawing his weapon.

“This peasant has insulted me in words and act,” Quaie answered coldly, then turned his glare to Macurdy. “I challenge you to duel.”

Cyncaidh was prepared to veto this; he had the authority, and the political repercussions of frustrating Quaie’s bloody intention were far more acceptable than those of Macurdy’s death. And surely Quaie would win. “My lords—” he began firmly, but Macurdy overrode the words.

“Among civilized people,” Macurdy said, “if one challenges, the other chooses the weapon. Are you civilized, Quaie?”

Cyncaidh held back then. Macurdy had something in mind. Best to wait, see what this meant, and step in later if need be.

Quaie was taken aback for only a moment, for he was an expert at spear fencing too, and no other alternative occurred to him. He smiled mockingly. “By all means, human. I’ve been training and dueling for more years than you’ve lived. Choose as you wish.”

Macurdy held up his large hands, thick palmed, the fingers hooked. “Hands,” he said calmly. “We’ll fight with bare hands.”

Cyncaidh expected Quaie to refuse. Wrestling was popular among ylver in pre‑adolescence, but not later, while fist fighting was considered uncouth, suited only to slaves. And Macurdy was clearly far stronger than Quaie. So the ylf lord’s answer bewildered Cyncaidh. “Perfect! Perfect!” Qauie said. “Hands it will be!”

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