Almost before he realised it, Arran was approaching the front door of Don's home; an aging stone cottage at the North Eastern edge of town. Light shone in a square shaft from the window of the front room, beaming like a moon ray in the night. Arran moved to knock, but the door opened before he got a chance.

"Saw you coming," said Don. His simple, uncoloured clothing hung loosely from a barrel chest and broad shoulders. Although he never spoke of his earlier life, Arran was sure Don had been some form of lumberjack or stonemason, and he kept himself in shape. They clasped hands briefly and moved inside, Arran noticing as he always did that his friend's home was warm and cosy even though he was the only occupant. In his mid forties, Don was already mostly grey. He acted old too, and often claimed that he'd aged early. In Arran's mind cause and effect had become the same thing, but Don remained adamant.

"If I was built like you, Don, I don't think I'd moan about being old."

His friend chuckled. "Where did that come from?"

"It's that crushing handshake of yours - makes a man think."

Don clasped one large hand on Arran's shoulder and squeezed. "You're not exactly wasting away yourself, my friend. You build more than wagons with that profession of yours."

Arran smiled and nodded, placing his cold hand over Don's warm one. "I feel the need for your counsel tonight."

"You shouldn't be out, Arran. The Moons shine evil."

"Come on, Don," he sighed, "you know I don't believe in all that stuff."

"Well, I have to keep on trying, even if I know I'll never convert you. One day, though. One day something will happen to change your mind. I wouldn't be so pious if I didn't have my reasons. You know that."

"Look, I don't have any reasons to be pious, Don, even if you do. Besides, I'm not here for a theological debate." They seated themselves comfortably in Don's sparsely furnished study, amidst expensive books and huge volumes which the bachelor himself had laboriously committed to paper over the years. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them.

"So, you've come about your son, then."

"Yes. I was told you were there when he was caught today. He hasn't been home yet, so I'd like to hear the story from an unbiased viewpoint before I take any action. Some sage advice might not go amiss either," he admitted wryly. "I have difficulty thinking clearly or rationally at times like this."

His friend sat back slowly, a concern refracted in his expression that Arran sensed went deeper than contemplation of a single robbery attempt. "If I were you, I'd treat this matter very seriously indeed. Of this robbery business today, there really isn't much to say. I was at Jeff Rayson's place buying some hunting arrows when your boy walked in, all furtive and nervous looking. Before I had time to say anything, he grabbed a crossbow and ran for it. Of course, Jeff caught him easily and reclaimed his merchandise. It wasn't the theft that bothered me, though."

Arran leaned forward. "What then?"

"It was the look in Xenn's eyes when he was caught. Jeff grabbed his arm and yanked him round and ... Well; I swear if that crossbow had been loaded, your son would have pulled the trigger. Believe me, I've seen that expression before, and there is no doubt in my mind. The look was only momentary, but it lasted just long enough to be lethal."

Arran sighed heavily and leaned back again. His right hand came up almost of its own volition to rub his chin through the black beard. If anybody but Don had said what he just had, Arran would already have left in anger at what he'd heard. His friend, though, tempered his temper and instead made him contemplative. For the first time in ages, he felt helpless in the face of events that looked as though they might spiral way beyond his ability to control them.

Don spoke, snapping him from his reverie just before his mood darkened further. "My only thought, and I'm not saying you should necessarily do it mind, is that you could disown Xenn."

Arran's hands braced on the arms of his chair, knuckles white, and he began to rise, but Don was having none of it. He pointed hard at his oldest friend, his voice deep and authoritative.

"No, Arran. Hear me out. Sit back. Go on, sit back down. You know I'm not considered the nicest of people, and it's true I'm not. But I'm pragmatic, and you know it. What I'm doing is making an unbiased, practical suggestion; exactly what you asked me to do, if you remember. Disownership is the only way to fully absolve you of responsibility for his actions. At some point in the future, sooner or later, that boy is going to kill somebody." His eyebrows knitted, creating a sense of emphasis. "It's not your place to risk being blamed."

Arran squeezed the arms of his chair. "It's exactly my place, Don. He's my son. I raised him, I tutored him, and I took responsibility for seeing him through to adulthood. He's almost there, Moons damn it! Next year, he takes up an apprenticeship and a man's place in the world."

"Let's say I agree with you." Don sat forward, matching gazes with his friend. "Just like the law says, you are responsible for Xenn's actions until next year. Tell me; what did you do wrong? What part of raising your son did you fail at so spectacularly that his aberrant behaviour sits squarely on your shoulders?"

Arran thought for a long time, first gazing at Don's earnest face, then at the well-maintained rug on the floor. The fire crackled gently, washing blankets of warmth across his shoulders, but it didn't stop him wanting to shiver. He watched the early years of his son through a haze of memory; played, taught, disciplined and loved. So far as he could see, Xenn's time with his family had been ideal. What went wrong?

"I'm betting you can't find anything to blame yourself for," said Don quietly, "and it's eating you up, but it shouldn't. You love that boy - you always have - and whatever happened to him, it's something outside your control. I know it sounds harsh, my friend, but you don't owe Xenn anything."

"He's fourteen, Don. He doesn't understand the consequences of being how he is."

"He's fourteen, Arran - he knows exactly what he's doing. He shouldn't need a fear of consequences to stop him doing it. It's driven from within - he has a killer's instinct and he doesn't have the social conscience to stop him indulging it. I've never been more serious. Xenn is a murderer in the making, and when it happens you won't be looking at a slight loss of earnings. Arran. You'll be looking at Duelism."


*


He opened eyes that felt like entire deserts had taken up residence. A gravelly groan croaked from his throat, rattling around what sounded like a small, enclosed space. His body felt stiff - solid and straight like a tree trunk lain across the ground. He raised a hand to massage an aching face and the joints in his shoulder and elbow creaked. The hand was calloused and scarred, but more than that. Lines creased and withered the skin.

I'm old. "When did that happen?"

No answer came; he was alone. With a grunt of exertion, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Legs dangled from the edge of a small cot, he realised he was in a tiny room, big enough only for the bed he occupied, a small table with a scroll on it, and a chest taking up most of the remaining floor. Beyond that, the outline of a door showed in the dark grey stone of the walls, and a tiny hole above his position admitted the light of dawn or dusk. A scabbarded sword rested against the table, unassuming but powerful.

Everything hurt - he felt like someone poured fire down his throat, and it spread to every part. He needed water, and a small cup on the table promised as much but bore only the successive dusky rings of slow evaporation.

How long have I been asleep?

He leaned forward for the rolled parchment, fixed with a blob of red wax, pressed with a six-sided star. Muscles flexed in his legs and across his stomach as he moved - he might be old, but he was in good condition and built like a stallion.

Something sparked in his head, a fizz of excitement. An almost-caught recollection buzzed around his mind like a trapped bee. The wax seal snapped easily, brittle with age, revealing a brief note:

Pick up the sword. If you still don't remember after that, you're no use to me.

He shrugged, dropping the scroll back on the table, and reached for the sword. The grip felt worn but sure in his hand, a perfect fit for his palm. It was four feet long in the blade, and broad. As he slipped it easily from the scabbard, he saw serrations along both sides of the point, extending six inches towards the hilt on a curved taper. This was a hand-and-a-half sword, for which fighters had a more colourful name. Bastard sword.

Despite its significant weight, he wielded it well in a single fist, though the hilt was long enough for a second hand when firmer grip was required. The whole weapon was immaculately maintained, polished and oiled like new, but sporting enough marks along the blade and digs in the leather-wrapped grip to indicate significant use. It was then he noticed the pommel; a raised disc between the hilt and blade. Embossed on it was a symbol almost as famous as the group of people it belonged to. A rearing stallion, blackened and proud.

He felt a smile crawl across his face, cracking lips as dry as old bones, as memories returned. He remembered writing the note, and the pact he made with an alien friend. This was his sword, and he had a mission.

"So," he whispered. "It's time."


*


"Who dreamt up Duelism anyway?" Suddenly the idea seemed ridiculous to Arran. "What a damned stupid punishment."

Don smiled, but there was little humour in it. "The Moonfathers, in Second Age Two Hundred and Eighty Two. The Lord Church of the Two Moons had just seized power - violently - and they needed something to demonstrate their ideology, to give the populace a reason to support them. They'd gone from being the widespread faith to the system of government - not an easy transition."

"So they do that," snorted Arran, "by forcing criminals to fight one another in public? Where's the logic in that?"

"Bear in mind, the old system was a feudal arrangement of liege lords and provinces. The aristocracy don't give a Depths' breath for the peasants or justice. Anyone committing a crime, or even suspected of it, was simply executed, along with any friends or family who objected. Compared to that, the church's system was positively humanitarian. Add to that their willingness - some might say eagerness - to prosecute the nobility, and the Lord Church made a fast friend of the population. All thanks to Duelism."

"And you can be free again, for all time, if only you murder a hundred people with your bare hands; that's how you prove what a balanced, reformed member of society you can be."

Don rocked back in his chair, laughing from his belly. "You have a troublesome way of phrasing things, my friend. Don't let the church guards hear you talking like that. You missed the point. Morta Siecle isn't murdering a hundred people, it's executing a hundred convicted criminals, but in a manner that gives them a fighting chance."

"That's semantics."

"No, Arran. That's government."

He sighed, dropping his forearms to his knees and his head between them. "So my choices are to disown my son, or end up wandering the world, cast out from my home town, praying to the Moons I manage to win a hundred rounds of mortal combat in a row."

"You could always go pro like the Black Stallion - keep going after you reach a hundred as a service to the church."

Arran snorted. "What did he reach? Seven hundred, seven fifty?"

"Something like that."

"He was an exception, Don. Think about it; have you ever heard of anyone else reaching their tenure, of even a single Duelist from the last eight hundred years that's won freedom?"

A cloud loomed across his friend's expression. "Rumour has it there's one alive right now, hiding somewhere from government forces. He's no friend to anyone, though, and word is he's twisted the rules to his own advantage."

"I think I want to meet him, get some tips before my inevitable fall."

"No. If he's as bad as people say, you really don't."