Code of Honor

i.

Positioned behind his king, Arald had an excellent view of the former baron demanding a parley. Mounted on a white horse, strands of pale hair framing his lean face, black armor faultless, the man made an impressive picture. He looked the legend that had built up around him in the years after his defeat. But just as a scheming Garath of Gorlan had added a prefix to his name he'd also added another adjective to his personal description. Thirty paces from Duncan's position, Morgarath looked cold, and sculpted—and dead. But that didn't stop him from trying one last throw of the dice.

"Duncan!" he called. "I claim the right of trial by single combat."

The king's party kept their voices low, offering advice, and the prevailing thought was refusal. Halt proposed going further and shooting the traitor where he stood. But as little as the knights of Araluen liked Morgarath personally they would not condone breaking parley. They had standards and by their code such an act would be murder. Arald wasn't certain if the ranger understood that or if he just didn't care.

Arald counseled hanging Morgarath instead. He liked things simple and clear-cut. The parley was only a delaying tactic. There was no point in allowing their king to risk his life in single combat when they already held the victory in their hands. It wasn't like Morgarath had anywhere to go now that he'd lost the war.

The tacticians in the party were thinking the proposition through on other lines, twisting an advantage to their side still further.

Morgarath just watched and waited. There was an upward curve to his thin mouth, which should have put them on their guard.

"As you say," said Duncan, his voice carrying easily across the intervening space and drifting back to be heard by those of his army not in his personal entourage. "Let fate decide the issue."

"Then, as is my right before God," said Morgarath, "and before all here present, I do so make my challenge and prove my cause right and just." He paused, licking his lips and tasting the words in a serpentine gesture. Bitter triumph etched itself on his face. "I challenge Halt!"

In the stunned silence that followed, Arald felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. He had no words. The same condition had taken all the other knights surrounding the king. Their plan had allowed for a challenge to Duncan but not any other specific vendetta. Who could have anticipated that Morgarath would hate an insignificant ranger more than the king who had been strong enough to hold the kingdom together and keep it out of Morgarath's clutching hands?

Halt shrugged and put his heels to the sides of his horse. He was ready to accept the challenge but Duncan seized his arm, keeping the ranger with the party by force. "You can't do that!" the king of Araluen protested, speaking equally to his former subject and to his friend.

"Oh, but I can," said Morgarath, reminding them all of the ancient laws by which they'd already agreed to abide. He radiated smug satisfaction. "That miserable sneaker is the proper representation of your kingdom, milord. I stand by my challenge."

"And I accept," snarled the ranger, speaking against the orders of his king and sealing the arrangement. He jerked his head at Sir David. "If you would do the honors? An hour or so hence would do well."

"Giving yourself time to run away?" asked Morgarath.

"Why no," said Halt. "It'll take that long to find a suit of armor that fits."

ii.

Halt strode through the camp on the way back to the pavillions, scowling face terrifying enough to clear their path even without the rumors running ahead. Arald trotted at his friend's side, his own feelings plain to see.

The ranger was going to fight Morgarath.

Halt was going to match whatever skill he had in single combat against a man taller and stronger than himself, using weapons that skewed the advantage still further in the former baron's favor. As if it wasn't enough for the ranger to offer himself against the life of his king and good of the country, Morgarath had kept pushing, goading Halt with the news that his apprentice was prisoner. His friends tried to argue that there were knights who wouldn't survive such an encounter; warriors trained and at the peak of their prowess who would be laid out as if they were shadows under the sun. Nothing Duncan or the others had said swayed Halt's determination.

And so Arald had half an hour to impart a modicum of dignity to a man who was going to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.

Sir David was hunting down a suit of armor that would fit Halt's wiry frame—most knights were big men; they had to be to carry the weight of their armor and swing the heavy broadswords in battle—while Arald would go a pass or two with lances to try and give Halt the basics of jousting technique. They also had to quickly run through the basics of using a sword. Knights trained for years, and despite Halt's battle experience, Arald didn't think it would be enough to give his friend a fighting chance.

Halt took the sword Sir Rodney offered him. The Redmont Battlemaster was closest in size and reach to the slight ranger and they thought his weapon would be the best match. Halt shed his cloak and handed his quiver and bow to Gilan. Grim-faced, Halt slid his feet into a ready stance and worked through a simple pattern of strike and parry with less hesitation than any of the knights had expected.

"The good news is that's not bad..." said Gilan. "We could have been practicing forms while I was an apprentice if we'd known..."

"The bad news is it's not good," said Rodney. "Not good enough to beat Morgarath, anyway."

"Would it be better if you just thought about the sword as a really long knife?" asked Gilan.

"It wouldn't matter. He overreaches me," said Halt, sheathing the weapon. His anger seemed to be driving him forward instead of clouding his thinking. He jerked a lance from a nearby rack, tested the weight and tried another. He ended up with a heavy oaken lance. It was ridiculously long, and Arald cleared his throat to comment on the fact when Halt looked at him. "Lend me that axe of yours?"

A single wicked blow from the war axe that had dangled from Arald's belt and the lance was proportionate to the wielder.

"I want four like this," Halt told Horace. The battleschool apprentice had come running to see if there was anything he could do to help. The boy was white, his emotions showing plainly on his face. He'd picked up on the fact that none of the knights expected the ranger to survive the encounter. Horace nodded and took the lance.

It seemed none of them were ready to say goodbye. After all, Halt would fight back. A black sheep never went meekly to its end.

iii.

"You want to grip the butt of the lance under your right arm and brace it across your body—"

"I know," snarled Halt.

Arald bit back an angry retort—he was only trying to help—but he saw that Halt carried the cut down lance with a fair semblance of familiarity and was probably only frustrated by the fact that time was rushing away from them. After all, the ranger had worked with knights for years. He'd seen their silly habits; knew how they carried their weapons; watched the tournaments. And he could bluff like crazy with that unchanging scowl.

Halt looked ridiculously small on the steeldust pony standing quietly at the far end of the field. He had refused the offer of a proper charger, saying he'd worked with Abelard for years and he thought the ranger pony could handle the weight for a little while. Before mounting, Halt had taken his horse's head between his hands and muttered something in Gallic. Abelard seemed to accept the idea of their new occupation with scarcely a blink.

"Right, then," said Arald. "That looks good. You're doing fine! That'll give Morgarath pause."

"That is sort of the idea."

"I'll go slow this first pass, let you get used to how the lance feels in action—"

The enormous battlehorse beneath Arald snorted eagerly, pulling against the bit. He knew what he was supposed to do, and even he thought he was going to run down the challenger at the far end of the makeshift lists. On the sidelines, Rodney shouted instructions and encouragement. Arald didn't think Halt was listening. Oh, he'd braced the lance properly, but the ranger's pony was just trotting along and Halt didn't seem concerned. Arald let his lance waver—Halt wasn't wearing armor yet and the point of this exercise was to keep him unhurt, not dump the ranger in the dirt before Morgarath did.

In that moment of inattention, something caught the baron under his breastbone and his world turned upside down. He had a confused impression of a spiral of green and blue and the shock of breath leaving his body.

Halt's bearded face appeared in the baron's line of sight and a hand was extended.

Arald took it and found himself raised to a sitting position. He blinked and looked around. They were on a green field in the middle of a war camp... fighting Morgarath... Morgarath... challenge... Halt...

"What... happened?"

"You did a bird impression," said Halt. From somewhere by the ranger's shoulder, Abelard snorted.

Maybe it was just the ringing in his ears, but Arald thought the steeldust pony was laughing at him.

"Very... good," said Arald, still trying to catch his breath. His ribs hurt, the original ache courtesy of the kalkara Morgarath had sent to kill Halt. Maybe it was no wonder after all that the ranger was the one singled out to bear the brunt of the traitor's final ire.

The faintest hint of a smirk appeared on Halt's face. "I have a cousin who is a knight," he admitted. "Try again? You don't have to let me win this time."

Had he let Halt win the first time?

iv.

"I hate this," muttered Halt while Sir Rodney tightened the straps on the borrowed armor. He'd dumped Arald twice more, which was only slightly encouraging considering the five times he hadn't. Rangers were supposed to practice until they never got it wrong—and they didn't have time for that. It wasn't like beating Arald meant that Halt would beat Morgarath. And there was still the duel with swords. There were rules of combat. You couldn't cheat against a man with a longer reach than you.

Halt might unhorse Morgarath, but that would only make the former baron madder than he was already and prolong the inevitable.

The ranger looked unexpectedly regal in full armor. He wore it like he was born to the privilege instead of being thrust inside in a last ditch attempt to save his life. Halt clenched a fist, testing the mobility inside the articulated gauntlets. A ranger's greatest strengths were his speed and agility, and the ability to make split second decisions.

He'd insisted on keeping his knives, sliding the distinctive double scabbard onto the sword belt where it didn't look out of place.

"Want me to knight you?" asked Arald.

Halt scowled. "If I thought it would help, I might, but no. I'm a ranger, not a knight."

Arald nodded. He could respect that. Then he nodded again as the words stuck in his throat. They were all gathered in the pavilion now, spending the last few minutes together. Horace was there. The young apprentice probably didn't know that he looked seconds away from bursting into tears. Gilan and Crowley were there, both rangers looking as grim as Halt himself. Sir David stood behind his son, wishing he had some further words of advice for the man who had worked with them both for so long. Arald and Rodney had done their best for their friend. It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel like they could repay the gifts of friendship they'd been offered over the years.

Halt met each of their eyes in turn, his own gray eyes glittering. "Gentlemen," he said. He cleared his throat. "It's been a pleasure. I... I count it the greatest honor and privilege a man could ever have to number you among my friends."

It was time.

Duncan stopped Halt as he rode toward the spot marked out for the combat. "I'd like to knight you," said the king.

"No, thanks," said the ranger. "I've already sworn all the oaths I intend to honor." He reached out and grasped Duncan's hand, taking it in a firm grip. "My king. By life or death I serve you. A few more words aren't going to change that."

v.

Abelard pranced. The first lance was cradled in the crook of Halt's arm and he looked—dangerous as he rode out to meet his enemy. If Halt's appearance on the field gave Morgarath pause, the cadaverous lordling didn't acknowledge it. In the end, it wouldn't matter that Halt looked like a knight or that he wore the king's insignia on the borrowed surcoat.

Morgarath had no intention of 'going easy' or making his opponent look good. His white charger raised a cloud of dust as he galloped down the field. His lance was set and pointed at Halt's heart.

The ranger pony trotted along, barely picking up speed as he went forward to meet the charge. Under the long forelock, it almost looked like his eyes were closed instead of narrowed to calculating slits. Abelard had taken to this new game. This time, watching from the sidelines, feeling his bruises, Arald saw the turn of the wrist that should have sent Morgarath flying while ranger and pony ducked under the lance that was supposed to do the same to them. Instead, the oak lance splintered and the horses broke away from one another, one of the animals squealing in pain.

Blood flecked the coats of both horses as they returned to opposite ends of the field for a second run. Halt took the replacement lance from Horace, moving it into position as they went with what could only have been long practice.

Arald clenched his hands, fingertips digging into his palms. You didn't do something like that without having perfected the move to being ingrained in the muscle. Halt had to have trained as a knight, once upon a time. Arald would have staked everything he owned and sworn to the truth of the fact. He felt the first flicker of hope. The law of gravity might be on Halt's side and a few others might bend—after all, rangers were reputed to dabble in things better left unspoken.

The second time they clashed, Morgarath went down. The former baron was on his feet before Halt reached him and they traded blows with the blades they wore at their sides. Every clash of steel, Arald winced. The first wicked overhand cut Morgarath delivered had sliced the fragile hope that Halt had a winning plan up his sleeve off at the roots. It was clear Halt was overmatched and overreached, just as all his friends had predicted. And Morgarath was toying with his victim.

Halt went down not two feet from where Arald stood, and it was all the baron could do to abide by the rules of the duel and not leap between Morgarath and the ranger. This shouldn't be how it ended...

Morgarath taunted Halt, laughing at him. "You won't survive this time, ranger. Your king can't save you. Your friends can't help you. They're all bound by their notions of honor. And if your little sneaker friends shoot me down where I stand—well, the king can't let that stand and they'll die too."

Morgarath set one armored foot on Halt's chest, keeping the ranger pinned. He'd pulled off Halt's helmet, wanting to be sure he fought the right man. Now glee appeared in his flat eyes.

"I may not get a kingdom, but at least I have this!" The sword blade flashed in the sunlight as it was raised for the killing stroke.

"I lied," said Halt.

Morgarath paused. "What?"

"All those years ago, when you asked if I knew who my father was. You know I did. Wouldn't you like to know now? One last piece of satisfaction?"

"Why not?" purred the former baron, leaning closer to hear the words which were growing weaker. He'd marked the ranger already. He must be bleeding out inside the borrowed armor.

"Ríoghnán O'Carrick," said Halt.

Morgarath frowned. "Rh—"

"And... my mother..." Morgarath leaned closer still. Arald could see wild satisfaction dawning on the pale face as Halt fought to get the words out. "Her name was Isolde de Avila before she was married."

Morgarath stared. Arald could see the names meant something to the former baron—he hoped they would mean something to him when he had to track down Halt's family and give them the news of his death. "You're a petty Hibernean princling? Oh, this is rich! To think... one of those proud lines has come to this... you! You're a poor, pathetic, sneaking, miserable excuse for a man." Morgarath laughed, throwing his head back and exulting in the joke.

He was still laughing when Halt stabbed him with the knife he'd kept hidden in the gauntlet of one hand.

vi.

Arald was one of the few who had heard what Halt had said to lure Morgarath into the deadly embrace. He wasn't sure if he believed the ranger or not. After all, Halt had no qualms about manipulating the situation. He lied and cheated and came out on top. He did what he had to do to survive. He was a black sheep.

But he had been trained as a knight, once upon a time. Arald would have staked everything he owned and sworn that was the truth. Arald just wasn't sure he was ever going to ask if any of the rest was true. The field had gone quiet as Morgarath collapsed atop his opponent and the wargals atop the far ridge grunted in unison—and then began to mill about. The mind which had held them in check was no more.

Metal clattered and armored limbs flopped. Pushing Morgarath's body aside, Halt levered himself up on one arm and looked around. With the sign of life it was as if a binding around Arald snapped and he rushed to the ranger's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, inanely. "Are you hurt?"

Abelard nudged his master's shoulder. Hey. Get up. We still have work to do.

Halt accepted Arald's assistance in getting to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, and Arald took the other man's full weight for a long second before Halt found his balance. "Think I'll live," said the ranger. He looked across the field to where Duncan had sat on his horse, watching the proceedings. The king and his guard were being drawn into the growing melee swirling around the dueling ground. The ranger's loyalties were very simple. He'd sworn to serve Duncan, and the Ranger Corps. He did whatever it took to fulfill that oath. But more binding still was the bond between teacher and student. Duncan and the rangers were capable of fighting their own battles. Will was only a boy, caught up in something that started before he was born, and a prisoner or dead. "Is Duncan mad?"

"Furious," guessed Arald.

"Maybe he'll cool off when the battle's over," said Halt. He threw an arm across Abelard's back and hauled himself up into the saddle, wincing in pain as he did so.

"Where are you going?" asked Arald.

Halt gathered the reins into his hands, pointing his course through the thickest point of Morgareth's former troops. "To find Will, of course."