Yet it seemed that someone else wasn’t happy; there was a confrontation taking place. He and Garde edged their horses closer to the knot of men surrounding a husky brown-haired Rider and Tore, Dave’s friend, whom Kevin remembered from their last days in Paras Derval.
“And if you ever do so again,” the brown-haired man was saying loudly, “I will cripple you and stake you out in the Plain with honey on your eyes to draw the aigen!”
Tore, impassive on his dark grey horse, made no reply, and the other man’s blustered threat fell fatuously into the silence. Dave was grinning. He was sitting his horse between Tore and Levon, the other Rider Kevin remembered from their last time.
It was Levon who spoke, quietly but with immense authority. “Doraid, be done. And hear me: you were given a direct command in battle, and you chose that moment to discuss strategies. If Tore had not done what I asked you to do, the wolves would have turned the flank of the swift. Do you wish to explain your action here or before the Aven and the leader of your tribe?”
Doraid turned to him furiously. “Since when does the third tribe command the seventh?”
“It does not,” Levon replied with equanimity. “But I command this guard, and you were there when that command was given me.”
“Ah, yes!” Doraid sneered. “The precious son of the Aven. He is to be obeyed, and—”
“One moment!” a familiarly inflected voice snapped, and Doraid stopped in mid-word. “Do I understand what happened here?” Diarmuid continued, moving into the ring of Riders. “Did this man refuse a direct order? And is he complaining about it now?” The tone was acid.
”He did,” Tore spoke for the first time. “And he is. You do understand correctly, my lord Prince.”
Kevin had a blinding attack of déjà vú: an innyard to the south, a farmer crying, “Mórnir guard you, young Prince!” And then something else.
“Coll,” Diarmuid said.
“No!” Kevin screamed and launched himself in a flat dive from his horse. He hit his friend, Diarmuid’s big lieutenant, with a tackle that sent them both flying to land with a double crunch in the snow among the stamping horses of the Dalrei.
He was about a half second too late. There was another man lying in the snow, not far away: Doraid, with Coll’s arrow buried deep in his chest.
“Oh, hell,” Kevin said, sick at heart. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Nor was he eased to hear a chuckle beside him. “Nicely done,” Coll said softly, not at all discomfited. “You almost broke my nose again.”
“God. Coll, I’m sorry.”
“No matter.” He chuckled again. “I was half expecting you, in fact. I remember you don’t like his justice.”
No one was even looking at them. His wild leap seemed to have been utterly pointless. From where he lay on the ground, he saw two men face each other in the ring of torches.
“There were enough Dalrei dead tonight without adding another,” Levon said evenly.
Diarmuid’s voice was cool. “There will be enough dead in this war without our risking more by allowing what this man did.”
“It was a matter then for us, for the Aven, to decide.”
“Not so,” Diarmuid replied. For the first time he raised his voice. “Let me remind you all, and better now than later, of how things are. When Revor was given the Plain for himself and his heirs, he swore an oath of loyalty to Colan. Let it not be forgotten. Ivor dan Banor, Aven of the Dalrei, holds that title in the same way that Revor himself did: under the High King of Brennin, who is Aileron dan Ailell, and to whom you swore an oath of your own, Levon!”
Levon’s color was high, but his eyes never wavered. “I do not forget it,” he said. “Justice is still not served by arrows at night on a battlefield.”
“Not so,” Diarmuid said a second time. “There is seldom time in war to serve it any other way. What,” he asked softly, “does the Law of the Dalrei invoke for what Doraid did this night?”
It was Tore who answered. “Death,” he said clearly. “He is right, Levon.”