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Day Three
Conall
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“Where are you taking him?” Iona grabbed the man’s arm before Goff’s followers could hurry him off.
“It’s the event of the night,” one of them said.
Conall put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’m fine.” As it turned out, the sack was really a mask, with slits for eyes, and he could see perfectly well.
Iona looked back at him with concern, but he squeezed her hand and allowed himself to be marched away. Fortunately, the onlookers left her alone, and the red-haired man who’d talked to them gave Conall a nod, as if to say, don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her for you.
The big question in his mind was if he was here because he was an Irishman or because he was a very particular Irishman. Conall’s only consolation was that neither the man he was fighting, who, since he was dressed like a Templar, Conall assumed to be Arnulf, nor Goff, the organizer, behaved as if they had any idea who Conall really was. Either that, or both were excellent mummers, an unlikely prospect. He couldn’t believe even someone as arrogant and righteous as Goff would deliberately harm the nephew of the King of Leinster.
Unless, of course, the point was to start a war. He hoped his friends were watching but knew better than to interfere, not until they knew more. From the somewhat welcoming pats on the shoulders he received as his guards guided him through the crowd to where the participants waited, his abduction appeared—amazingly enough—good-natured, prompting a tentative sigh of relief on his part.
They didn’t know.
He adjusted the hood so he could better see out the slits, and then someone thrust a metal sword into his hand. It was too heavy for him, designed for someone twice Conall’s size, which might have been the point. Rather than keep it, he dropped it amongst a pile of other weapons, laid out near where the participants gathered before they entered the ring, and pawed through them until he came up with two short swords—daggers really—and hefted one in each hand.
He could feel the Danes eyeing him with actual interest now. Maybe they’d chosen him for the ring because he was an older Irish fellow, someone to despise, and they wanted someone easily defeated. Suddenly, they were wondering if they’d made a mistake.
Good.
They didn’t know it, but Conall had fought at the Battle of the Liffey. Perhaps he hadn’t fought well, per se, but he’d lived. As he’d watched the men work in the ring tonight, it had dawned on him that the way they were training was all very well and good for raiding, but it wasn’t battle training. Men on a raid fought one-on-one, usually against less skilled opponents. In battle, the shield wall was all. What they were doing here would be useful once the battle became a free-for-all, but everyone would have to survive the shield wall first.
The Irish were not known for their shield walls, which is one reason the Danes had defeated them time and again. Conall’s people were notoriously undisciplined.
He decided tonight he would show these Danes what that meant.
When he’d met Arnulf yesterday, he’d noted his physique. Now in full Templar armor, he loomed over Conall and could have wielded the sword they’d first given him, confirming Conall’s suspicion that he was supposed to lose. He wasn’t going to forfeit before he’d started, however. He had too much pride for that, and he set his feet determinedly in the ring and forced himself to take even breaths.
He held the daggers as if they were swords. Though he’d taught Cait to fight with the knife reversed in her fist, with the point towards the ground, that was because a woman’s strength came from her legs. Conall wasn’t constructed like the man who faced him, but Arnulf’s mistake was to be wearing so much gear. Maybe if they’d both been wielding a two-handed sword, as in battle, it would have made sense. But Conall had brought knives to a sword fight, and he knew the identity of the man who faced him. Arnulf hadn’t been born to the life as Conall had been, and that knowledge told Conall to act first.
He dove forward, somersaulting the eight feet between himself and Arnulf, and came up on one knee with his knives crossed in front of him. Arnulf parried, but the intersection of the knives caught the blade. As Conall rose to his feet and flung his arms wide, he ripped the sword out of Arnulf’s hand. A moment later, Conall had hooked his right foot around Arnulf’s left knee and brought him to the ground. And a moment after that, he had his knives to Arnulf’s throat.
A gratifying silence descended on the crowd. Then a few people started to laugh.
Conall said, “Do you yield?”
Arnulf had both hands up. “I yield! I yield!”
“Take off your helmet.”
From the sidelines, Goff said, “That isn’t our way—”
But Arnulf was already fumbling with his helmet. The face revealed, however, was not one Conall recognized. This wasn’t Arnulf, but a different fresh-faced young man with dark hair and darker skin, whom Conall had just humiliated for no reason.
Conall stepped back, dropped both blades to the ground, and walked out of the ring.
