It had been weeks since Draka had crossed the stream into Talkro Village. It had been weeks since the bridge was destroyed while he stood on his side of it, his eyes locked on the very same man he was seeking. When he had entered the village, it had been the first, the last, and the only. And now, as Vigora’s hooves stomped and dragged with earnest anticipation on the ferry across the lake, Draka wrangled the reins in his hand and steeled himself.

  How hateful could a man be to cast his own flesh and blood into the wilderness without a care? His own niece, the last survivor of his own brother’s line, to be thrown so carelessly away. Draka could never and would never understand such an act. His stomach churned at the thought of doing such a thing to his own sister or her children, if she had borne any before her death. He fought back the bile in his throat as the sounds of celebration reached his ears. The pub lanterns and street torches were red balls and beams of yellow distorted by the ferry’s tread over the lake waters.

  As the ferry neared the other end, the ferryman pushed off the unfinished bridge with a long pole to keep them from drifting into the fresh bricks, all while tugging hard on the rope that went from end to end. The approach made his heart beat, made Vigora blow and huff, made him conscious that he only had his sword to defend himself with. But this was not Al'Constantine, nor Heblem, nor the tundra of Siberia. He was not in a row of boats and ferries filled with soldiers and knights ready to leap onto the beach against hordes of demons and undead. He was merely a man entering a village with the intent to settle a debt.

  The ferry raked over the rocky bank of the lake and Vigora stepped off as Draka gave the ferryman a nod of appreciation. Vigora hopped up the embankment onto the road and nearly leapt upright when she was met by a group of men. Draka made to reach for his sword but stopped at the sight of Father Hagen and another younger and tinier man with the red skullcap of an administrator beside him.

  “Excellent,” Father Hagen’s smile was barely visible with the torches so brightly behind him and the other. “Do be so kind as to get off your horse and greet my friend and former pupil, Pierre Fabron, appointed Administrator under Lord Taggerty.”

  Draka glowered in the direction of the pub, at the loudness of the music, the drunken cheers filling the void that the dark night created between the street torches. He slid off Vigora and greeted Pierre with a nod. He must have been among the Priory monks when they arrived only a few hours ago.

  “This is such an honor,” Pierre looked ready to leap from his own skin in excitement. Draka regarded him for a moment, wondering how it was possible for there to be a member of the Diocese that was thin rather than plump from their constant sitting and access to food, beer, and wine. “I was told of your reputation in Utrecht and from what I was told here, you did not disappoint. I look forward to—”

  Draka stepped past him. He would apologize for his rudeness later, but felt pressed as the celebration in the pub became louder from spilling out of the confines of its walls.

  “Where is he going?” Pierre asked. “Tomorrow, then? Yes, tomorrow we will speak. Until then?”

  Draka guided Vigora toward the noises and torches burning at the ends of tall poles along the road. Three men were stepping out of the pub with cheers and song, their arms firmly over the shoulders of the brawler, Balian. All smiles and fists of mugs dripping with frothy ale, they were near dancing into the torchlit night. Behind them, Draka recognized the rest of those who had stood against him on the bridge. One met his eyes but said nothing.

  “For the River’s, or shall I say—lake’s sakes, Gregor,” Balian said, the others bursting with laughter that only hinted at drunkenness. He slid from the arms of the other three to slap the shoulder of the one, whom Draka understood to be Gregor, “You’re killing our celebration. Have at least one drink. Celebrate with your kin. See, Preston is celebrating. Let bygones be bygones.”

  “I know where you got the money from for those drinks, Balian,” Gregor shoved past him, “And I’ll no take a drop.”

  Gregor stopped short and took a step back when Draka stepped with Vigora to block his path to the stilted houses.

  I guess he didn’t see me, Draka grinned with malice. Gregor took a step back, allowing Draka’s eyes to meet Balian’s.

  Balian scoffed facetiously. He handed his mug to one of the men beside him, one that looked to be at least a relative of Gregor. The others were setting their mugs on the ground and rolling their shoulders. At least, they were until they saw that Draka had his sword in his belt and he was wearing his boots this time. They bravely stood their ground against every instinct Draka knew was screaming in their ears. But he was fixed on Balian.

  “Come to join our little party, are you?” Balian looked to the others for their support in his boasting. But they were silent.

  Gregor sidestepped to allow Draka a clear path to him.

  “Oh, I forgot, you’re a wounded mute,” Balian laughed at his own joke. It trickled into nervousness when he realized none of the others were laughing with him. “Well, the opportunity is here. Shall we, offlander? Shall we see if you really are as brave and strong as my traitorous brother believed? Who’s with me?” He looked to the others. “Let’s show this offlander how Talkro treats its invaders.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Pierre appeared behind Draka. “He is…”

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  “Shut your coward mouth, little man, before I teach you the lesson I taught my brother and his whore!”

  Draka put a hand to stop Pierre from passing him. Vigora lowered her flaring nostrils, her ears pinned with rage. Draka calmly reached into his saddle…

  “There he goes. I told you,” Balian announced loudly, “He’s nothing more than a fool with a—”

  Draka slapped Balian across his face with the gauntlet, sending the man staggering to his knees. Balian spat blood and teeth as Draka threw the bloodied gauntlet to the ground in front of him.

  “Oh,” one of the others said as all the village men took steps back to the tune of Draka drawing his sword, “Shit.”

  Draka looked to their eyes. He challenged Balian to a duel, but he was gleefully awaiting an excuse to execute the lot of them beforehand.

  “What?” Balian struggled to lift himself. The strike made his knees shake and his muscles give. Draka struggled not to smile.

  “He challenges you to a King’s Duel, Balian Clevlan,” Gerard’s darkly humored voice said from nearby. Once he reached beside Draka, he said, “It was supposed to be a glove.”

  Draka shrugged, close enough.

  “A duel?” Pierre shot a surprised look to Gerard. “But he…”

  “Has issued it,” Gerard moved to Balian as Draka scooped his gauntlet from the ground and pulled himself back into the saddle. “Do you agree to his challenge, Balian? Or are you too cowardly to face your challenger?”

  Balian was helped to his feet and spat. Hateful eyes on Draka’s, “When and where?”

  “Here, sunrise,” Gerard answered.

  “A King’s Duel means…” Pierre began.

  “To the death in equal combat,” Gerard finished for him. “Or absolute surrender. To the victor all spoils.”

  Balian straightened and lifted his chin confidently, “I’ll see you at sunrise, offlander.”

  Draka nodded and turned Vigora back to the ferry.

  “I’ll make short work of him,” Balian’s bloodied lips stretched into a wide smile.

  Gerard stopped Pierre from saying something with a whisper that Draka couldn’t hear. He and Gerard had agreed. Balian was to be encouraged as much as possible. He wanted him to believe himself as high and mighty as possible before Draka could knock him down. He wanted Balian to feel the fall as deeply as Draka felt his own. He wanted Balian to suffer for his sins.

  At least until he found Maud sitting with her head in her knees on the edge of her porch as he made his way home. Until the moment that her glassed green eyes looked up to him in the waning moonlight, he had forgotten the only true reason he should have in his heart for this challenge; her and her mother’s lives.

  Maud wiped at her tears at the sight of him with a soft grin. He barely slid from the saddle before her arms wrapped around him and her head burrowed into his chest. He felt her jaw moving as if she were saying something, but there were no words. She only held him tighter.

  “We need you,” She said finally. Maud leaned back to look up into his eyes with a yearning he knew to be in desperation, “I need you.”

  Draka nodded. He knew that he was the only one to champion them now. He would care for them, even if it meant pouring all the coins he had into Maud’s dowry to do it. He looked to the sky and tightened his own embrace.

  'Lord,' he prayed as they held each other in silence, 'If it is Your will that Maudeline and her mother, Aurelie, be granted Thy protection in this time of need. I ask that I be granted the strength and the wisdom to provide as much of that protection as my mortal body is capable of. By Your will, I beg for them not to suffer for my sins. I plead the Blood of the Lamb for them, Lord Almighty God, and ask that I suffer in their place if that be Thy will.'

  “Maud!” A woman’s voice called from the ferry. Draka looked up to find Gregor and his wife climbing up the hill to them.

  Maud excitedly broke from his embrace and leapt for them. A dark-haired woman met her with a warm hug. When the torchlight flickered across her face, Draka knew instantly that it was Aurie’s sister, Leta. He remembered Gerard telling him that Gregor Vorner was Aurie’s brother-in-law.

  “I didn’t think you would come,” Maud’s voice was shaky and half-muffled. “I thought you hated us.”

  “I wonder what could possibly have made you think that,” Leta’s glare at her husband was not missed. “Where’s Aurelie?”

  “She won't leave Pa’s side,” Maud started for the door but stopped when she saw Draka begin to sink back to Vigora. “Thank you,” she said to him.

  He bowed with a grin.

  Gregor said, “I wish you luck tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”

  “Luck? For what?” Maud furrowed a brow from the porch as Leta slid past.

  Gregor’s own brows smushed together as he regarded Draka. “He challenged Balian to a duel. Sunrise tomorrow.”

  Draka couldn’t help the look he shot Maud. Maud blinked at him for a moment. He expected her to lash out like she had when he was bullheaded before. Or express some worry for him.

  Instead, she began laughing.