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of any kind. The man simply stared. Somehow it made Dagorian feel even worse. Rising from his seat, Banelion gestured for Nogusta to come forward. The black man approached the dais, saluted, then bowed. “Will you defend the honor of your comrade?” asked the White Wolf.
    “But of course, my general.”
    Dagorian’s relief was intense, and he reddened as he saw a slight smile appear on the face of the Ventrian swordsman.
    “This is not seemly,” Malikada said smoothly. “A common soldier to face the finest swordsman alive? And a black savage, to boot? I think not.” He turned to a second Ventrian officer, a tall man with a long golden beard crimped into horizontal waves. “Cerez, will you show us your skills?”
    The man bowed. Wider in the shoulder than the whip-lean Antikas, Cerez had the same economy of movement and catlike grace found in all swordsmen. Malikada looked up at Banelion. “With your permission, General, this student of Antikas Karios will take his place.”
    “As you wish,” said Banelion.
    Nogusta stepped forward. “Do you wish me to kill the man or merely disarm him, General?”
    “Kill him,” said Banelion. “And do it swiftly. My breakfast is waiting.”
    Both men removed their armor and upper clothing and strode out bare-chested into the center of the barracks ground. Nogusta lifted his sword in salute. Cerez attacked immediately, sending out a lightning thrust. Nogusta parried it with ease. “That was discourteous,” whispered Nogusta, “but I will still kill you cleanly.”
    Their blades clashed as Cerez charged forward, his curved sword flashing with bewildering speed. But every thrust or cut was parried by the black man. Cerez dropped back. Dagorian watched the contest closely. The Ventrian was younger by thirty years, and he was fast. But there was not an ounce of fat on Nogusta’s powerful frame, and his vast experience enabled him to read his opponent’s moves. Dagorian flicked a glance at Antikas Karios. The champion’s dark, hooded eyes missed nothing, and he leaned in to whisper something to Malikada.
    The two warriors were circling one another now, seeking an opening. The action had been fast, and the black man, though skillful, was visibly tiring. Cerez almost caught him with a sudden riposte, the blade slashing close to Nogusta’scheek. Suddenly Nogusta appeared to stumble. Cerez lunged—and in that moment realized he had been tricked. Nimbly spinning on his heel, all signs of fatigue vanished, Nogusta swayed away from the blade, his own sword slicing through his opponent’s golden beard and biting deep into his throat. Cerez stumbled forward, falling to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. Dropping his sword, he tried to stem the rush of life from his severed jugular. Slowly he toppled forward, twitched once, then was still. Nogusta strode back across the barrack square and bowed to the White Wolf. “As you commanded, lord, so was it done.”
    Ignoring the furious Malikada, the White Wolf rose. “The prisoner is not guilty,” he said, his voice clear and firm. “And since this is my last moment among you all, let me thank you for the service you have given the king while under my command. Those among you who have chosen to retire will find me camped on the flat ground to the west of the city. We will be ready for departure in four days. That is all. Dismissed!”
    As he stepped from the dais, Malikada moved in close. “You have made an enemy this day,” he whispered.
    The White Wolf paused, then met the prince’s hawkeyed gaze. “An infinitely better prospect than having you for a friend,” he said.
    The king’s birthday was always celebrated with extravagant displays: athletic competitions, boxing matches, horse races, and demonstrations of magick to thrill the crowds. Spear throwing, archery, sword bouts, and wrestling were also included, with huge prizes for the winners in all events. This year promised even greater extravagances, for it was the