Conflict of Interest:  Part One 
by ZuiderZee  (zuiderzee@hotmail.com)
Women in power for the wrong reason.


     In a glaring display like the stabbing of a 
hundred glittering spears, the first gold dawn of autumn 
burst through the windows of Danning Castle, 
illuminating the bloodied practice floor.

     Free of dust, but scuffed by the criss-crossings of 
countless hard boots, the dark timber planks that formed 
that famous square had been stained with spilled gore on
many occasions, and this morning was no different.

     Sparse furnishings and two wheeling combatants 
suddenly cast shadows on the floor.

     Labored breathing, punctuated with huffs and grunts
made a clash of sound that mingled with the heavy foot-
falls and the dull smacks of blows in a primal music.
Now and then, throat-clearings and coughs joined in the
din, betraying the frailties of the battlers.

     A hasty spew of bloodied spittle made an ugly red-
dish patch at Ustreed Hormgrud's feet.  Her opponent,
the herzog hadn't needed to deliver on of his legend-
ary battering-ram punches to her face; he had expertly 
cuffed her with a blow lauched from the side rather than
from straight on.  That had caught Ustreed by surprise
and her split lip reminded her to keep her guard up.

     Ustreed, like most of the practical folk of 
Crenholtz, thought it wrong to describe flat, square 
shapes like the one she fought on by the name of ring.
Be that as it may, there had been numerous changes in 
the state,  and she was part of the upset.

     A female knight--not a rogue, not a vengeful or
bent loner of a woman disguising herself as a man, not 
the wife or daughter of a great Ritter--in every way
she was valid, legitimate.  Crenholtz had sponsored and
outfitted her, seen to her training and even now was
making preparations for her promotion to the office of
Castellan.

     And first, she had to satisfy the herzog; satisfy
him in the ring.

     Crenish did not buy, bed, barter, beg or butcher 
their way to the top.

     They earned their posts with sweat and blood.

     Good reputation, citations from famous citizens,
and family history were not considered keys to power in
a state characterized with militant policy.  Thus, she
had been duelling with the herzog since before sunup.

     The powerful and wily Helmar Bruellen had the
presence of mind to wheel and maneuver during the duel, 
making sure his broad back was to the windows before the
dawn broke over the alps.  The unexpected glow of bright
sunlight turned the dark stone bulwark into a barrage
of smarting illumination.

     Accustomed to the half light of the castle inter-
ior, Ustreed hadn't counted on the herzog to employ
anything other than his superior strength and skill as 
an advantage.  When she raised her free arm to shield 
her eyes, the herzog had lunged, clinched with her and
delivered a conservative buffet to her lower lip with 
the heel of his hand when she tried to withdraw without
an effective block.

     Helmar Bruellen was unhappy.  The herzog had not
personally schooled Ustreed in the use of melee weapons-
-he had only taught her how to shoot--and he had set
strict guidelines as to what he demanded from his 
favorite students.  The woman had not improved markedly 
over her swordplay from the previous season.

     Thus, she would have to pay for it.

     Tusk, the herzog's wide-bladed hanger, had a 
knurled grip carved from strips of a boar's thigh-
bone.  A year ago, he had commisioned a similar and 
suitable blade for Ustreed;  she had wielded the unnamed
sword with a discipline which pleased him initially, but
she had no clear finesse nor gusto in her melee and her
greatest trial was fast approaching.

     Through the open windows, the sunlight continued
to stream, intensifying the shadows.  Bruellen kept the 
sun on his right side, defying Ustreed's efforts to fake 
him out of position.  She was catching on, but too slow.

     Too damned slow.

     In a move calculated to confuse her, the herzog
shifted, made a wild feint with Tusk to clear a space to
advance and blocked Ustreed's telegraphed counter-
attack which immediately followed.

     You want your skinny back to the sun, do you?  
Bruellen hunkered as he batted away the woman's blade 
again and again.  Well then, have it!

     He withdrew from her latest slash and held his 
ground while she whirled, dodging another lunge.
He parried the next and forced her sword down, turning
with her until her back was to the windows.

     Tusk jumped in the herzog's sweaty grip, catching
the amber light like a mirror which he neatly reflected
into Ustreed's face.

    For a moment, a rectangle of yellow light lay
across her face like a veil.  Her eyes squeezed shut.

     From his bench, Urlim Brehn squirmed and groaned
as he looked on.  He sat in shadows, but his bulk was
lifted somewhat in pure tension.  This was Ustreed's
challenge and he was unable to help her now.

He had told her long ago that Herzog Bruellen would be
more fierce and cunning with every duel, and this latest
trick was just the sort of thing he would use to show 
she wasn't prepared for the post of Castellan.  It was
harsh, and the herzog had to play the adversary in this
conflict even though he was her staunchest supporter.
In all conscience, he would spare her nothing if she
was to earn his deepest trust.

     And the earning hurt.

    With her blinded again, it was a simple matter for
Bruellen to crash into the woman and knock her to the
hard floor of the ring.  All restraint gone, he put her
into a painful hold with her face pressed immovably
to the timbers.  She still had her sword, but his 
booted foot lay across her wrist, grinding the tired
joints under his considerable heft.

     Kicking powerfully, but without consequence,  
Ustreed worked to dislodge the herzog, using a counter
Urlim had taught her, but Bruellen was beyond the reach
of her legs and prepared to dislocate her arm if she
didn't pound the floor as a signal of defeat.

     Releasing the sword, Ustreed brought her palm down
in a loud thump, grateful she didn't have to say aloud
that she'd lost miserably.

     The fight was over.


     End of Part one.