of pretension that had come to the normally level-headed people of the lands.
In strode the viscount and his entourage. Aubrey was a meticulously groomed, salty-haired man in his mid-forties, Wilmon a foppish and swaggering twenty-five. Both wore the weapons of warriors, sword and dirk, but when they shook Gahris’s hands, he felt no callouses, and neither had a grip indicating that he could even swing a heavy sword. The ladies were worse yet, over-painted, over-perfumed creatures of dangerous curves, clinging silk garments, and abundant jewelry that tinkled and rattled with every alluring shift. Avonese had seen fifty years if she had seen a day, Gahris knew, and all the putty and paint in the world couldn’t hide the inevitable effects of nature.
She tried, though—oh, how this one tried!—and Gahris thought it a pitiful sight.
“Viscount Aubrey,” he said politely, his smile wide. “It is indeed an honor to meet one who has so gained the confidence of our esteemed duke.”
“Indeed,” Aubrey replied, seeming rather bored.
“May I inquire what has brought such an unexpected group so far to the north?”
“No,” Aubrey started to answer, but Avonese, slipping out of Aubrey’s arm to take hold of the eorl’s, interrupted.
“We are on holiday, of course!” she slurred, her breath scented by wine.
“We are come now from the Isle of Marvis,” added Elenia. “We were informed that none in all the northland could set a banquet like the eorl of Marvis, and we were not disappointed.”
“They do have such fine wines!” added Avonese.
Aubrey seemed to be growing as tired of the banter as Gahris, though Wilmon was too engaged with a stubborn hangnail to notice any of it.
“The eorl of Marvis has indeed earned his reputation as a fine host,” Gahris remarked sincerely, for Bruce Durgess was a dear friend of his, a common sufferer in the dark times of the wizard-king’s rule.
“Fair,” Aubrey corrected. “And I suppose that you, too, will treat us with renowned leek soup, and perhaps a leg of lamb as well.”
Gahris started to reply, but wasn’t sure what to say. The two dishes, along with a multitude of fish, were indeed the island’s staple.
“I do so hate leek soup,” Aubrey went on, “but we have enough provisions on board our vessel and we shan’t be staying for long.”
Gahris seemed confused—and that sincere expression hid well his sudden sense of relief.
“But I thought . . .” the eorl began, trying to sound truly saddened.
“I am late for an audience with Morkney,” Aubrey said haughtily. “I would have bypassed this dreary little island altogether, except that I found the eorl of Marvis’s arena lacking. I had heard that the islands were well-stocked with some of the finest warriors in all of Eriador, but I daresay that a half-crippled dwarf from the deepest mines of Montfont could have easily defeated any of the fighters we witnessed on the Isle of Marvis.”
Gahris said nothing, but was thinking that Aubrey’s description of Bedwydrin as a “dreary little island” would have cost the man his tongue in times past.
“I do so hope that your warriors might perform better,” Aubrey finished.
Avonese squeezed Gahris’s arm tightly, apparently liking the hardened muscles she felt there. “Warriors do so inspire me,” she whispered in the eorl’s ear.
Gahris hadn’t expected a morning arena fight, but was glad to oblige. Hopefully, the viscount would be satisfied with the show and would be gone before lunch, saving Gahris the trouble of setting a meal—be it lamb or leek soup!
“I will see to the arrangements personally,” Gahris said to Aubrey, smoothly pulling free of Avonese’s nailed clutches as he spoke. “My attendants will show you to where you might refresh yourselves after the long journey. I will return in a few moments.”
And with that he was gone, hustling down the stone corridors of his large house. He found Luthien just a short distance away, dressed in fine clothes and freshly scrubbed after his morning workout.
“Back to the yard with you,” Gahris said to his son’s confused expression. “They have come to see a fight and nothing more.”
“And I am to fight?”
“Who better?” Gahris asked, patting Luthien roughly on the shoulder and quickly leading him back the way he had come. “Arrange for two combats before you take your turn—at least one cyclopian in each.” Gahris paused and furrowed his brow. “Who would give you the best fight?” he asked.
“Ethan, probably,” Luthien replied without hesitation, but Gahris was already shaking his head. Ethan wouldn’t fight in the arena, not anymore, and certainly not for the