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where the bruising was already starting to come through. She bobbed him a rough curtsey and darted away to hover by the entrance. Held shook his head in wonder. Once an idea takes hold, it can be the very devil to dislodge again.
    He knelt by Feynor's pallet. “How's the back?”
    “I'll live, milord. Thanks to you. And that liniment's wonderful for bringing the bruising out, so Marta says.”
    “I'm pleased I was able to help. Now, Bern said you wanted to speak to me.”
    “I did, milord. You're fighting Manny tonight.”
    Held nodded. “It had to happen sooner or later. Turns out to be sooner.”
    “Okay, now Manny’s good but he's not that good. Oh I know he thrashed me today but I was tired and he was fresh. I got careless and he punished me.
    “But if you start pressing him hard and he thinks he's in trouble, he'll produce a little dagger from a sheath behind his back. Whatever you do, don't let him prick you with that blade, milord. I don't know what he puts on it but it'll bring the strongest man to his knees in less than half a minute.”
    “Huh! That sounds typical of the man. Thank you for that, my friend. I'll look out for it. Now you get some rest and I'll go do what needs to be done.”
    Held paused by the tent flap. “Look after him, Marta. You've got a good man there.”
    “I know that, milord. I'll take care of him.”
    Outside the fighting square had been prepared. Twenty paces to a side, bounded on one side by the campfire and on the other three by lines of fighters drawn up in full battle gear; bows, swords, spears and every scrap of armour they possessed. One side broke open to let him through and then reformed behind him. There was a word of command, Held could not immediately identify who gave it, and every man present snapped smartly to attention and saluted.
    Feeling mildly embarrassed, he returned the salute, right arm crashing against the chain mail on his chest. He stood in the centre of the square and waited. The man on the end of the wall nearest the large tent broke ranks and disappeared inside. A few moments later he reappeared with Manny on his heels. The leader was wearing his chain mail shirt and crested helmet and carried on his left arm, a circular shield that Held had not seen before. Again the square broke open to let him through, but this time there was no word of command and no salute.
    Manny strode up to Held and glared at him. “I have led these men for over two years,” he declared. “I have fed them and put coin in their purse. By what right do you challenge my authority over them?”
    “The food you took from the tables of the hungry, the coins from the pockets of the poor. Instead of protecting the weak and defenceless, you have preyed on them and you have led these men down paths with no honour. I challenge you by right of arms.”
    “Then you will die,” he spat.
    Both men moved away to a fighting distance and took guard. The shield, from what Held could see, was mostly toughened leather stretched over a wooden frame but there was a metal boss in the centre from which a wicked spike protruded. His opponent's sword was a gleaming piece of steel, slightly longer than his own katana and utterly devoid of any decoration. It was a professional's weapon, designed for killing.
    They circled each other cautiously, each man feinting his attacks in an attempt to judge the other's speed and reactions. Held had a slight advantage in terms of speed and agility because of his lightweight armour and lack of a shield but it was Manny who launched the first serious attack with a combination of strikes delivered at lightning speed that forced the younger man back towards the fire. At the last second, Held threw himself sideways as his opponent slammed the shield into his body. If it had been a direct hit, the spike would undoubtedly have penetrated even mithril mail but as it was, the power of the glancing blow caused him to wince in pain as he rolled back to his feet.
    Sensing