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Volkar, Raven’s eldest brother, did not spare a single glance for their mother. Instead he drew a deep breath to prepare himself and then walked into the centre of the duelling ground. He was one of the largest warriors in the stronghold, a battle-scarred giant in a laced black leather tunic and breeches, with bronze breast plates and arm guards. His helmet was a fearsome bronze hawk’s head. He drew his sword and the long blade flashed in the harsh mid-winter sun. He looked around the stone-faced assembly and declared grimly, “I, Volkar, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

As the first son of Gaunt, it was his right to make the first claim, but not to go unchallenged. Raven glanced toward Taynor, his second eldest brother. Taynor matched Volkar for size and weight and ferocity of appearance, but he made no move. Volkar was an accomplished swordsman with eighteen kills. Taynor had only twelve to his credit and was biding his time. Raven smiled a bleak smile of understanding. There were two more sons of Gaunt, Bhorg and Scarl, third and fourth in line above Raven, but they too made no move. Raven shrugged and moved out to face Volkar. Calmly, he drew his own sword.

They were brothers, but there could be no quarter between them and they both knew it. Because they were brothers and the sons of Gaunt, they were destined to be rivals and mortal enemies. At the end of this day, only one of them could live.

Volkar laughed briefly as they faced each other, but his contempt was for Taynor and the others. His careful gaze shaded beneath the sharp beak of his helmet, never left Raven’s.

“So, I must fight the boy before I can fight the men,” he jeered.

“You will never fight again,” Raven answered. And there was both certainty and finality in his voice.

Volkar scowled and spoke no more.

They were an ill-matched pair: Raven still a slender youth of nineteen, Volkar massive and bear-like and twelve years his senior. Raven wore black-laced leather similar to his brother, with a minimum of armour. His helmet and arm guards were of plain but highly polished steel. The thin sunlight flashed from his helm and arms as well as from his blade as they slowly circled each other, causing Volkar to curse and squint his eyes.

The elder began to twirl his blade slowly, cutting circles in the air. Raven matched the intricate movements and the swords whirled faster as they built up to the moment of impact. Then, with a bull roar, Volkar sprang.

Raven defended against the initial attack, moving fast and light on his feet as Volkar blundered to and fro in his efforts to strike a death blow. In a savage symphony of steel, the long blades clashed and echoed as the two men fought their way around the courtyard. On all sides, the watchers alternately pushed forward or drew back as the duel moved closer or away from them. At some points they cheered or jeered, but mostly they were silent. It would be unwise to have jeered at the victor and, for the moment, the outcome was uncertain.

Volkar was tiring, cursing with rage and frustration, and slowly Raven shifted from defence to attack. Sparks flew from the hammering crescendo of sword clashes and Volkar fell back. Raven was not fooled. Suddenly Volkar made a cart-wheeling dive sideways, his left hand scooping up a handful of dirt to hurl at Raven’s eyes. Raven was already spinning neatly away. The dirt hit him in the back of the neck. A split second later, Raven faced his brother again. Each of them had used that split second to draw a hunting knife from his boot sheath. Volkar cursed. Raven laughed.

They menaced each other, breathing heavily. Then Raven made a half turn and calmly threw the knife away. It was a left hand throw, but practised and accurate. On the far side of the courtyard was a target that the men used for sport, and the hunting knife stuck dead centre. A cheer went up, for the sword was the weapon of honour, and this contest could not be settled with a knife thrust. Volkar scowled and threw his own knife. It thudded home an inch further out from centre than Raven’s. Volkar cursed and charged again.

The sword blades crashed again and again and Volkar’s fury gave him a momentary advantage. Against Raven’s measured cut and thrust, Volkar was swinging madly, hacking and chopping with all his strength while Raven nimbly ducked or blocked every blow. Volkar made one final, stupendous effort, a mighty stroke that might have shattered Raven’s blade and split him from neck to crotch if it had landed. But Raven was not there. His movement was too fast and before Volkar could recover his balance, Raven had lunged forward again with the death thrust.

Volkar froze, his eyes wide and staring as his gaze locked on Raven’s. His bulk was fixed and held up by Raven’s sword. Without a word, Raven used his boot to push Volkar off his blade and the big man collapsed dead on the ground.

While Raven stood for a moment to regain his breath, two of the spectators dragged Volkar to one side. Then the silence returned, tense and still expectant.

Raven squared his shoulders and then raised his eyes and sword to the assembly. He echoed the fatal words of the brother he had just killed. “I, Raven, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

Now all eyes turned upon Taynor. The second son of Gaunt had already lost face by allowing the first challenge to pass, but here was his chance to take the stronghold and avoid disgrace. Raven had already fought one duel and should be tired. Taynor was fresh and at full strength. All in one swift movement, Taynor drew his sword and rushed headlong into the attack.

Like Volkar before him, Taynor calculated that his superior weight and sheer fury would crush his younger brother down. But Raven had faith in his own skill and speed. He gave ground in defence as before, but there was no fear in him to instill panic. He still had total control of his own movements and the combination of quick feet and lightning blade again turned the tide of attack. Taynor found himself on the defensive, floundering before Raven’s attack. Raven was tired but adrenaline-powered. He had never felt better in a fight and was almost reluctant to finish it. Then Taynor slashed at Raven’s neck with his sword, missed and left himself wide open. Raven returned the compliment with a back-hand cut that did not miss and his sword edge sliced home deep just below the edge of Taynor’s helmet. Taynor was cut, spinning to the earth, where he lay with his life-blood forming a thick red pool around his shocked face.

It was over so quickly that the watchers were stunned. They had expected to see Volkar kill Raven and then to watch Taynor kill a weakened Volkar. This turn of events had them all gasping but then they began to cheer. The noise was deafening and Raven waited for it to subside.

When the echoes faded, Raven was still standing in the centre of the duelling ground with his bloodied sword still in his hand. They expected him to walk away, for after two duels the code allowed him to rest for twenty-four hours before issuing his challenge again. But Raven was in no mood to rest. His blood was hot and singing and the sword felt like a natural extension to his arm. He smiled slowly as he looked around the respectful circle of faces, and his eyes rested on his brother Bhorg. He said again, “I, Raven, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

Bhorg swallowed hard. He was a tall man, his face deeply scarred from his sixth duel which he had barely survived. He was an able fighter but he knew when he was outmatched. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

Raven looked to Scarl. The fourth son of Gaunt also declined the challenge.

Raven’s gaze moved from face to face, resting briefly on each man in the circle. No one moved.

Finally Raven reversed his sword, stabbing the point into the earth at his feet and holding the blade just below the hilt. “Then kiss the sword,” he commanded.