Princeps’ Fury

“Do not move!” Varg thundered in a voice whose raw authority rang from the stones and echoed around the harbor. And as swiftly as that, the dock was motionless, the other warriors, one in the very act of drawing his arm back to throw his weapon, holding their positions as if frozen in a sudden arctic gale.

Tavi had already stopped his motion, even before Varg had spoken. The very tip of his sword, no more than a quarter of an inch of steel, lay buried in Tarsh’s throat. A tiny rivulet of blood trickled from it and down the shining steel of Tavi’s weapon. Tarsh stood frozen, hardly daring to breathe. His sword clattered from his hand and to the pier.

Without taking his eyes from Tarsh, Tavi gave Varg an acknowledging nod. “I appreciate the courtesy.”

“Of course, gadara,” Varg rumbled.

Tarsh’s ears quivered in shock and his eyes widened.

“Hear me, pack leader,” Tavi said quietly-too quietly for the nearby Canim warriors to hear, he hoped. “Varg has named me gadara, and I have responded in kind. I will not permit you to take advantage of his sense of honor in order to abuse it and thus cheapen his reputation.” He narrowed his eyes. “I wish it to be intact when I kill him. Do you understand me?”

Tarsh continued to look shocked for a few seconds. Then his lips quivered on one side of his muzzle, briefly baring his fangs.

Tavi promptly stomped on the foot that his gladius held pinned to the stones.

It took Tarsh several moments to regain his breath.

“I asked you a question,” Tavi said.

Tarsh bared his fangs in earnest. “I understand.”

“Good,” Tavi said. He reached down and jerked his gladius clear of the stone and the luckless Tarsh’s foot. Then he withdrew his blade from the golden-furred Cane’s throat and stepped two quick paces back from Tarsh. He raised his voice, and said, “Now. Pick up your sword.”

Tarsh just stared at Tavi for a blank second.

“Did you lose your hearing with your ear, Tarsh?” Tavi asked tartly. “Pick up your sword.”

The Cane let out a snarl and snatched up his weapon-careful, Tavi noted, to keep his weight off his injured foot.

“Out of respect for Lararl, who holds the respect of Varg, I have not killed you out of hand,” Tavi said. “Instead, I give you this choice. Behave honorably toward Varg, as you know Lararl would have you act-or face me, here and now, in front of everyone, to the death. And after I’ve killed you, I will give your second the same choice.”

Tarsh’s eyes glittered. “What makes you think that you are worthy of my attention, Aleran scum?”

Tavi spread his swords in mocking invitation. “I’m the size of a half-grown puppy, Tarsh. You’ve got twice my reach, three times my weight, several times my strength, you’re fighting on your home ground and with your own men all around you. Except for that little hole in your foot, you hold absolutely every advantage. Surely only a coward of legendary proportion would be afraid to fight me.”

From the ranks of Canim warriors came a number of coughing growls-the Canim approximation of Aleran chuckles, or so Tavi judged them. The loudest such sound came from the wounded Cane on the ground-the one Tavi had put there.

Tarsh’s eyes swept back and forth across the ranks of his men, and his ears flattened slightly toward his skull.

Tavi could follow his line of thought easily enough. A moment ago, Tarsh might have been able to order his men to dispatch Tavi as he would tell them to kill any other animal. Now, however, the situation had changed. Varg had recognized Tavi as gadara, a respected foe, a word more highly regarded than “friend” among the wolf-warriors. More to the point, Tavi had issued a direct and personal challenge, changing the situation from a group assault to an issue of dominance and personal strength. And, most importantly, Tavi had demonstrated the virtues most unquestionably held valuable by Canim warriors-courage, confidence, and most importantly, competence in the arts of violence.

“Think carefully Tarsh,” Varg growled, unmistakable amusement in his voice. “I would, before I dueled this Aleran.” He turned to the assembled warriors. “Who is the second to this pack leader?”

The wounded, heavily muscled Cane on the ground tilted his head slightly to one side. “I serve in that capacity, Warmaster Varg.”

Varg’s nostrils twitched. “You are of the bloodline of the Red Rocks.”

“Anag,” the Cane said, flicking his ears in the affirmative. “You slew my grandsire, Torang, at Blackwater Fen.”

“Torang Two-Swords, that tricky old bastard,” Varg said, jaws dropping open in a grin. He gestured with a paw-hand at one line of white hairs among the black fur along his jaw, just above his throat. “He gave me this scar.” He gestured at his chest and belly. “And two more, here and here. I was under the healers for an entire moon after I fought him, and his pack stopped our advance cold.”

Anag lifted his head slightly in pride. “When I was young, he spoke well of you, Warmaster. He died in good company.”