The Stolen Bride. Susan Paul Spencer

said. “I told you that I would return, and my promises are as honorable as your own.”

      “You choose the dark of night to fight your battles—or to have others fight them for you.” Kayne’s gaze flickered past Sir Griel to the men standing behind him. “These are the marks of a coward, and I say it plainly to your face and before all those assembled, Sir Griel.”

      It was difficult to tell in the dim firelight what Sir Griel’s reaction to this was. The crowds surrounding them murmured in some amazement at Kayne’s boldness.

      “You mistake the matter, blacksmith,” Sir Griel replied. “I returned at the end of the festivities so as not to disturb the people of Wirth in their pleasure. But now, ’tis time for the merriment to be at an end. This is my man, who has come to play his part in our Midsummer Night battle.” At the lifting of one of Sir Griel’s fingers, a tall man dressed in full armor stepped forward. He was swathed in the black-and-red tunic that all of Sir Griel’s men wore, and appeared the more ominous for it. Kayne could see at once by the way the man held his sword that he was a skilled fighter, and that there was strength in both his hand and arm—all of which would make him a difficult opponent to best. “Do you still say that you will not fight?” Sir Griel asked.

      Slowly, Kayne shook his head. “I will only defend myself, if I am made to do so.”

      “Then you will be made to do so,” Sir Griel told him. “I would offer you my sword, if you will take it.”

      “I will not.”

      “So be it.”

      Sir Griel stepped back, and the surrounding crowds did the same. Kayne stayed where he was, wanting to keep the flames behind him to both aid his sight and force his opponent to fight with the brightness burning in his eyes, distracting and blinding him. Each moment in such a fight was precious. Kayne’s life now depended upon making every one count in his favor.

      His armored opponent began to approach Kayne at once, though slowly, his sword at the ready, clearly taking Kayne’s measure. He moved with care, not rushing into his attack as Sir Griel’s soldiers had done earlier, and Kayne could but admire and approve the tactic. Whoever had trained the man had done well.

      His opponent circled to one side, trying to force Kayne to circle as well so that their positions would be reversed and Kayne would be the one to suffer the fire’s blinding glare, but Kayne merely continued to step before him, foiling the plan. Next the well-armored knight attempted to push Kayne back into the fire by making his approach more direct, but to this Kayne merely held his ground, inviting a charge that could be easily sidestepped.

      After a few minutes of this, Sir Griel’s man clearly began to realize the difficulty of trying to engage an opponent who would not fight. The only option left to him, just as Kayne meant it to be, was to charge, and this he finally did. Sword held aloft, he ran toward Kayne at an angle—a wise decision, Kayne thought, as he had no choice but to leap forward, away from the fire, to avoid being cut in half. He whirled about at once in an attempt to regain the advantage, but his opponent had already divined his purpose and charged again, driving Kayne farther from the fire and into the shadows.