Caj’s backside was indescribably sore. They had been riding for about 8 hours now, through the day, and now by the light of torches and the infrequent lamp-posts that lit waystations along this small section of the king’s highway between Goldstern and Swallow’s Rest. The halt had finally been called and they were setting up camp now, but Caj couldn’t seem to get over how sore his arse was. He wasn’t certain how it was possible to be both simultaneously aching anf numb, but apparently, his arse was an over-achiever, capable of this seeming impossibility. The chafing on the inside of his legs wasn’t much better, but he could live with it.

Fortunately, Caj was not alone in his pain. Rai, Emma, and Lewis also shared in his misfortune, While Maxim, who was an experienced rider from his time in Edral, and Valerna and Natalia, who rode in the carriage, seemed to delight in teasing them. Patrick, for his part, wore his characteristic sneer, ignoring the undignified moaning and chuckling of his travelling companions. Three fires sprang up as they all prepared for the night. Around one, the coachmen and drivers huddled with the servants, while Patrick and his manservant staked their claim on having one to themselves. Caj’s crew, the Noblis’s, and Robert and Braxton claimed the third and final fire, although the two soldiers seemed content to look on quietly at the grumbling and laughter of their charges. Caj could respect that, even if they were Crimson Cloaks.

The first watch was about to start, and most everyone was winding down for the night. Lewis, Robert, Braxton, Rai, and Caj had agreed to split the night’s watch into five pieces, switching off between the five of them for the next eight hours, and they were all preparing to bed down, with the exception of Lewis, who had the first watch. It was just after Natalia, Valerna, and Emma had entered the carriage, where they would be sleeping, when a most unwelcome interruption occurred.

Footsteps approached, rustling through the long grass with all the grace of a lumbering black bear, and pebbles and dirt were sent skittering, rudely dislodged from their comfortable resting place. The footsteps originated from the booted feet belonging to one rather arrogant son of a duke. Caj wasn’t looking up at the moment, content to close his eyes and get some rest. His backside felt like someone had mistaken it for a tombstone, and then tried to carve an epitaph in it, and his legs aches as though he had been running all day rather than riding on Duff’s back. Additionally, he had spent the day listening to Rai and Lewis’s banter, and enduring their oddly cruel brand of humor. In short, he was tired, in pain, and above all else, irritable. It was thus that he decided to very firmly keep his eyes screwed shut, his mouth firmly closed, and maintain his illusion of sleep. He didn’t know who had come stomping up to their fire, rustling grass and scattering dirt annoyingly, but Lewis or one of the others could deal with it, he was sure. The first inkling that there might be trouble was when the footsteps did not stop by the fire, but instead halted about ten feet away to the North. The exact spot where the Noblis carriage- and Valerna and Natalia- were located. Caj restrained a sigh, on the off chance that he might not be disturbed, but the next sounds shattered that hope, flimsy as it was.

“Lady Natalia, I would have words with you!”

The voice was a young tenor, quivering like the snapped string of a lute, vibrating with the shattered grief of a song cut short, and shaking with the vindicated outrage of a cat whose fur has been stroked the wrong way. It was the voice of Patrick MacNeil. Caj let out the sigh he was holding in after all, annoyance making itself known as a slight headache behind his eyes. On the bedroll to his right, Rai let out a moan, no doubt feeling the same way Caj did. Caj forced his eyes open with the same amount of effort it would take to force open a stone coffin, rubbing the grit out of them with a groan. Rai sat up next to him, muttering some very creatively contrived curses regarding the owner of the voice. It was fortunate that Patrick couldn’t hear him, in Caj’s estimation. Old Patty Boy didn’t seem like the type to take those sort of comments lightly, and Caj really didn’t want to have to go through all the trouble that keeping Rai’s head attached to his person. The voice that would’ve sounded perfectly normal to Caj at any other point in time spoke again, and somehow, in his tired state, it sounded more annoying then he knew it to actually be.

“You and your sister have disrespected me, my station, and my dignity. This must be answered for. If you are not spineless cretin’s, you will show yourself so that we might have words!”

Spineless Cretin’s? Caj thought as he pushed himself to his bare feet, shifting his knife around on his belt so that it wouldn’t dig into his stomach. He normally wouldn’t have bothered sleeping with a belt and knife, but he was in an unfamiliar place, so it was better safe than sorry. That sentiment did not extend to boots, as he didn’t feel like dirtying his blankets, or developing foot fungus.

Behind him, Rai was muttering a particularly eloquent invective comparing Patrick’s voice to the noise that proceeded from the backside of a geriatric pig, while also forcing himself to his feet. Caj really couldn’t be bothered, so he continued his internal dialogue as he walked forward, trying to ignore the pounding behind his eyes that was quickly turning into a migraine.

Really, he couldn’t come up with something more creative? That was pitiful.

Caj rubbed more firmly at his temple, absently noting that the soldiers and Lewis were standing now also. Reaper’s Harvest, his head threshing hurt. It hurt so much that for a moment, he considered sitting down for a moment, and letting the others take care of the problem. He was seeing double now, and that couldn’t be a good thing. But as soon as he had the thought, his migraine intensified, almost crippling. A voice rang out, Knight Captain Robert’s.

“Ser Caj, you don’t look well. Sit down, let me take care of this.”

Sudden panic shot through Caj, and the weight of Zashchin seemed to triple. He strained, forcing himself upwards, growling with effort. He felt an inexplicable anger towards Robert. He shot the man a glare that must’ve been worthy of Narm, from the way that the man took a step back. Caj gritted his teeth, straightening his expression.

“No… Captain…” He gritted. “It is my duty… I am their shield.”

As soon as he said the words, the ached in his head receded slightly, and the weight on his shoulders lessened. Caj turned without giving the red-headed captain another look, marching towards the carriage. The closer he walked, the lighter he felt, and the less pain in his mind. With a few steps he was close enough to be noticed by the wildly arguing Natalia and Patrick.

“You have no right Lord Patrick. You can be assured that I will be speaking to your father about this!” Natalia’s voice rang with the cold steel of rebuke. Patrick’s voice responded in kind;

“How dare you! I have no right? I have no right?” indignation laced his tone like poison in wine. “I am Lord Patrick MacNeil, Heir apparent to the Duchy of the Sea, and you will show me respect. I have every right! I enjoy the privileges of my station because my family has earned them! I hold the prerogative to demand what I might like, to do what I might like. You should’ve been honored at my interest, or at the very least, not spurn me like some filthy beggar!”

Natalia’s face was flushed with anger as she screamed in response;

“Better a filthy beggar than a churlish cox-comb.”

Patrick let out a wordless roar of anger, storming up the carriage steps and tearing the door open before Caj could reach him. Valerna stepped in front of her sister, with the obvious intent to push Patrick back, but she was in an awkward position. While Patrick was not a large man, he was still larger than Valerna, and he took her at the knees, sending her flying off the carriage with a yelp. Caj was rushing up the steps now, headache gone, but he wasn’t going to be quick enough. Patrick kicked Natalia in the solar Plexus, sending her backwards into a wall, and lighting a fire in Caj’s chest. He was a fool. He had walked here. Walked. Like there was no risk at all, like nothing would come of it. If he had been faster, less lazy, this could’ve been prevented. Hells, If he’d insisted that the carriage be kept closer to camp, regardless of propriety, this could’ve been avoided.

As Caj rushed up the stairs, Emma stepped in front of Nat, an oddly grim expression on her face as she swung Valerna’s riding crop at Patrick’s knee. The leather crop hit, and Patrick let out a hiss before hitting Emma full on with the face. Emma had always been a wisp of a girl, and the blow sent her stumbling into the red cushioned seats of the carriage. The hot anger in Caj’s chest abruptly turned to cold rage. Patrick was reaching for Natalia, who was just now recovering, but Caj was within arm’s reach now, he extended one hand, long, strong fingers latched onto the back of Patrick’s surcoat, and yanked him back like he was grabbing a pup by the scruff. Fury lent Caj’s arm aid, as did the fact that the weight he had been carrying all day seemed completely gone. He threw Patrick out the door of the carriage like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes.

Caj stomped out of the carriage, snarl on his face. By now the whole of the camp had arrived at the carriage and was watching, completely stunned. They, like Caj, had apparently decided that a small squabble would certainly not erupt into violence. Patrick was coming to his feet, face now purple with rage and indignation, and his rapier was out of it’s scabbard and pointing at Caj’s rapidly approaching form like an accusatory finger. Incidentally, Patrick’s left hand was pointing at him in a rather accusatory manner.

“You… you….” The expression on Patrick’s face was one of incredulous anger. “How dare you lay hands upon me! Your arrogance and disregard for your betters has forced my hand!” he crowed, “I warned you. Prepare yourself. I, Patrick MacNeil, challenge you to a duel of honor, to first blood!”

Caj was halfway to Patrick, he abruptly stopped. Fire flickered in the darkness from the camping sites, sending shadows flickering out in ragged patterns, creating a patchwork quilt of darkness and uncertainty that draped over the scene, seeming to muffle the sounds that any military veteran could recognize as proceeding sudden violence. Fury lay heavy in the air, adding to the suffocating presence of uneasiness.

“How dare I?”

Caj’s voice was a soft growl, but there was little doubt that everyone heard. He took a deep breath, and the next words out of his mouth were curiously calm, leading Knight Captain Robert to shiver and take a step back.

“Your duel is excepted. As the challenged, I set my terms as follow. Here, now, with only the weapons and armor we currently wear.” Patrick appeared confused for a moment, but appeared too stupid to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. If he had, he would’ve seen that it was rabid. He didn’t wait to find an adjudicator, or respond in any traditional manner, ignoring etiquette for a member of society that was so much lower than him, and lunging for Caj with a thrust. What followed would be a story that every witness present would tell their grandchildren about in hushed tones, filled with dramatic pause, and eloquent prose.

Caj stepped off the line of the attack, drawing his dagger as he went, and knocking the Rapier even further away from his body, and turning Patrick’s right shoulder. Caj could very easily push down on Patrick’s shoulders and send the man spinning, then proceed to stab the man in the back. Instead, Caj tossed his dagger to his left hand while his right snaked into Patrick’s guard, the heel of his palm hit Patrick right between the eyes, stopping the young nobleman’s forward motion dead, then sending him backwards, where he tripped over Caj’s waiting ankle and fell to the ground, stunned. When Caj spoke, his voice was cold, and seemingly devoid of emotion.

“You think you are a man, a noble man as it were.” Caj placed his foot on the end of Patrick’s sword, heel of his bare foot on the tip, and the length of his foot pointing towards the hilt. He snorted. “You are not noble, though you are a man. Yet you have not learned the lessons of a man.” Patrick had recovered somewhat, and was yanking upwards on his sword desperately, adrenaline addled mind stopping him from realizing that he was being toyed with. “This is not entirely your fault I suppose, but it must be remedied.” Patrick swore as Caj released his sword, and leapt backwards.

“Thresh!” Caj continued as though he hadn’t even heard.

“So, brace yourself like the man you claim to be. I will instruct you. And you will learn.”

What followed was a showing of skill and brutality, as Caj danced around Patrick’s strikes as the lordling’s swings became more and more desperate. Every time he dodged, Caj would land a strike, sending the heir to MacNeil house stumbling. He never drew blood, very obviously not ending the duel, but Patrick was certain to sport some awful bruises the upcoming morning. Caj had rapid-fired punches all over Patrick’s torso, bashed Patrick’s shin’s with his own, boxed Patrick’s ears, gave him two black eyes, and severely bruised the big toe of Patrick’s left foot using his heel. By the end of it, Patrick’s body was bruised, and his pride shattered. Patrick was not the sort of man to stiffen his spine under a beating, or to grow more stubborn. He did keep himself from weeping though. Even if his pride had shattered like thing glass hit by a stone, he still had the shards of his dignity surrounding him.

Caj, for his part, was in a blind haze. He was speaking to Patrick, he knew, but he couldn’t really be bothered to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, other than to make certain they hurt. If he could not stab Patrick through the heart with his dagger, then he would do it with his words. He spoke to Patrick, a sentence at a time, about the immaturity and rashness of his actions, the prideful scorn of his responsibility, and the gall he had to attack three women in the place they would sleep. He spoke, but he did not hear. The words that flowed from his mouth were just another weapon for him to use, and Caj had excellent instruction when it came to weapons. Yes, indeed, just as Caj hardly had to think to employ his swords, and did not possess the necessity of consideration as to the best way to strike with his hands and feet, his words required no direction.

When it was done, Caj stood over Patrick, breathing heavily. He breathed in deeply, then lett all the air in his lungs out with a hiss. As much as he wanted to strike at Patrick, he would not. Not again. No, he would employ a different strategy, to ensure that the duke’s heir remembered well this lesson. For even though Patrick lay battered on the ground, he was not bloody. Caj raised his dagger, looking at the defeated eyes of his opponent, then sliced open his own hand. Blood pooled, then began to drip from his fingers, as the gathering of ten people watched in stunned silence, as Caj opened his hand, and let his blood splash onto Patrick’s fine clothes. He flicked his fingers, splattering Patrick’s face with blood, then turned on heel and walked away, calling over his shoulder;

“First blood is yours, Lord MacNeil. Congratulations on your victory.”