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roared.
    “I am grateful for both the hospitality and the offer but you make my point for me. I do not believe that women are objects to be traded. I do not like the way you degrade this noble lady who is your unwilling guest and I do not like the way you beat a defenceless man.”
    “Noble lady! Hah! You are obviously a fool to be taken in by a pretty face. This slut is no more nobly born than I am. She just happened to marry the local headman.”
    “Then I am afraid that it is you who are the fool, my friend. Nobility is not a matter of birth but of how one lives one's life.”
    “You go too far, Master Swordsman. I revoke my gift of hospitality. Leave now while you can still walk.”
    “I'm afraid I can't do that either.” Held indicated the circle of people around them. “These are good people. They deserve a better life than you offer them. They deserve a better leader than the one they currently follow.”
    “A better life. A better leader.” Manny sounded almost apoplectic with rage. “You are challenging me for the leadership of this group?”
    “A bit slow there, Manny but you seem to have caught up with the plot. Yes I am challenging you.”
    “Hah! I see your plan.” A crafty look appeared on Manny’s face. “You think to provoke me into a rage as you did Torsten and have an easy victory. Well it won't work with me.”
    He turned to the men nearby who had scrambled to their feet. “Clear these logs and prepare a fighting square. Build up the fire and light some torches. We need light to fight by. Tell me when all is prepared.” He strode into his tent and dropped the flap.
    Falaise stood so that the men could clear away the chair and stools and looked over to where Held was standing.
    “You take a great risk for us, my lord.”
    Her voice was clear and carried easily across the bustle. Men stopped what they were doing at the sound of her voice. It had that sort of quality and not many of them had heard her speak at all during her time as a hostage.
    “Why do you address me so, my lady?” Held replied. “I have no title.”
    “You said yourself, my lord. It is not matter of birth but how you live your life.”
    Held watched her as she walked away from the fire and climbed back into the covered slave wagon.
    “She's a proper lady that one, milord,” Jaks spoke at his elbow.
    “Oh don't you start. Run and fetch my gear for me, would you? I think I'd better wear some armour for this fight.”
    “But you ain't got no armour in your gear, milord. It ain't 'eavy enough.”
    “Just fetch it please, Jaks. And drop this milord nonsense.”
    “Yes, milord.”
    Held sighed. He was going to have trouble with that one. When Jaks returned, he opened the pack and spread it on the ground. Wrapped in a soft cloth at the bottom of the pack was a tight roll of something metallic. Held loosed the bindings and lifted it up to reveal a chain mail vest that glittered in the firelight and a pair of vambraces made from the same metal.
    “Cor blimey. I ain't never seen nothing like that.” Jaks looked at the armour in awe and reached out a finger to touch it. “What's it made of?”
    “Mithril.” The word leapt unbidden into Held's mind. “It's mithril.”
    “Mithril. That's elven armour ain't it? I didn't think elves really existed. Where'd you get it from?”
    “I... I don't know. I guess I've always had it.”
    He pulled the mail shirt over his head and fastened the vambraces to his forearms as Bern hurried over to whisper in his ear.
    “If you've got the time, milord, Feynor would like to speak with you before the fight.”
    “Not you as well, Bern.”
    “Beg pardon, milord.”
    “Doesn’t matter. Of course I'll talk to Feynor. Where is he?”
    “He's still in his tent, milord. Marta won't let him move.”
    “She's a very sensible woman. I'll come at once.”
    When he entered the tent, Feynor was stretched out full length on his stomach and Marta was rubbing some more liniment onto his shoulders