Chapter 33: Trial
The dawn air was cold and tasted of damp earth and old smoke. Mist clung to the hollows of the tourney grounds, softening the edges of broken stone bleachers and the churned clay of the fighting circle. It was a different place now, stripped of its festive banners and laughing crowds. This was a place of judgment.
Kerr stood in the center of the circle, armored not in his jousting plate, but in the heavier, simpler field armor of Highever—scratched silverite, unadorned except for the Cousland laurel etched over his heart. He held his longsword loosely in his right hand, his buckler strapped to his left forearm. At his feet lay his shield, a large, brutal rectangle of oak and steel. He had rejected a helm until now, wanting to see everything, wanting them to see his face.
Fergus stood just outside the marked ring, Oren clinging to his leg, wide-eyed. Oriana had taken Annette and Gerard to a guarded booth, away from the Duke’s sight. The Emperor sat on a raised dais, looking profoundly bored, as if adjudicating a dispute over irrigation rights.
The Duke, however, was a portrait of swollen, vindictive fury. His jaw was a misshapen lump of purple and yellow, bound tightly with silk. He sat in a lavish chair, propped up by attendants, his eyes blazing holes at Kerr. When he tried to speak, it was a wet, sloshing sound, like stones in a bucket.
“Let the accused restate her plea,” the presiding magistrate intoned, a thin man with a voice like rustling parchment.
Annette, guided forward by a court clerk, stood straight. Her voice, though quiet, was clear in the hushed field. “I demand trial by combat.”
A murmur went through the small assembly of permitted nobles. The Duke made a furious, gurgling noise.
“So recorded,” the magistrate said. “The accused may name her champion.”
Annette didn’t hesitate. She pointed a slender, steady finger at Kerr. “I name Kerr of House Cousland, Teryn of Highever’s son, as my champion.”
The Duke struggled to his feet, spittle flying from his ruined mouth. He raised a hand, waving a rolled parchment. Another clerk hurried over, took it, and presented it to the magistrate. The man unrolled it, his eyes scanning the text. He looked up, a flicker of surprise breaking his judicial calm.
“The aggrieved party, His Grace the Duke of Val Royeaux, invokes a counter-claim. Under Imperial Precedent, Codex Justinian, Article Twelve, regarding grave insult to a peer of the realm… he demands a Trial of Three.”
Fergus stiffened. “A Trial of Three?” he said, his voice cutting through the morning air. “That law hasn’t been invoked in a century. It’s barbaric.”
The magistrate shrugged. “It remains valid. The Duke may field three champions. The accused’s champion may also bring two others to his side, to face them in sequence or together, as the combatants choose.”
All eyes turned to Kerr. The Emperor leaned forward slightly, his chin resting on his knuckles.
Kerr looked from the Duke’s triumphant, swollen face to Fergus. His brother’s expression was tight, calculating. Bringing in two more meant involving others in a death-match. It meant debt, and risk. Kerr looked back at the Emperor. He shook his head once.
“My sword and my shield will be my companions,” Kerr said. His voice carried, flat and final.The murmur grew louder. Fighting three alone was suicide. The Emperor’s eyebrows raised a fraction. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Not of approval, but of recognition. The fool or the bravest man he’d ever seen.
“So be it,” the magistrate announced. “The terms are set. Single champion for the accused, three for the aggrieved. Combat is to the death. The Maker judge the righteous.”
At a signal from the Duke’s handler, a gate at the far end of the grounds groaned open.
Three figures walked out of the mist.
They were not chevaliers. They were not Orlesian at all. They were Tal-Vashoth, Qunari who had abandoned the strict dogma of the Qun.Mercenaries. Each stood nearly as tall as Kerr, but broader, their grey skin like stormcloud, their horns curving wickedly from their skulls. They wore patchwork armor of steel plate and hardened leather. Their weapons were not for show.
One carried a massive greatsword, its blade wider than a man’s hand. Another had two longswords, their edges glittering dully in the morning light. The third held a heavy, crank-fed crossbow in one hand, a spiked mace dangling from his belt. They moved with a predator’s economy, their yellow eyes scanning the field, settling on Kerr. The air seemed to grow heavier with their presence.
The Duke shuffled forward, a grotesque smile stretching his bruised lips. He tried to speak, the words a bubbling, painful mess. “Couthland… It ith not too late… to conthede… Spare your… pathetic life…”
Kerr didn’t let him finish. He took two steps forward, his boots crunching on the clay. His voice, when it came, was clear and sharp as broken glass, carrying to every ear.
“Rest your jaw, worm,” he said, staring past the Duke to the three monstrous warriors. “You are about to witness how the Maker judges aspiring rapists.”
He turned his back on the sputtering noble, a gesture of such profound contempt that the collective intake of breath was audible. He walked to where his greathelm rested on the ground. He picked it up, the metal cold in his hands. For a second, he looked toward Fergus. His brother gave a single, hard nod. For them, it said.
Kerr placed the helm over his head. The world narrowed to the slit of the visor. Sounds became muffled, his own breathing loud in the enclosed space. He slid his sword into its sheath at his hip for a moment. He took his shield from the ground, settling his forearm through the grips. He drew his sword again.
He faced the three Qunari. He did not salute the Emperor or the magistrate. Instead, he brought his sword hilt to his chest plate, a single, soft tap of metal on metal. A warrior’s respect for those who were about to die.
For a moment, the Tal-Vashoth were still. Then, in unison, the greatsword wielder and the dual-sword fighter mirrored the gesture, knuckles to their own breastplates. The one with the crossbow gave a short, sharp nod. They understood.
The Emperor raised his hand. He held it for a suspended second in the cold morning air.
Then he dropped it.
“Begin.”
The Qunari moved. The crossbowman fell back, already cranking his weapon. The other two charged, a simultaneous bull-rush of muscle and intent, their footfalls shaking the ground.
Kerr didn’t wait. He bull-rushed forward to meet them.
The greatsword came first, a horizontal, decapitating sweep meant to cut him in half at the waist. Kerr didn’t duck. He planted his lead foot and snapped his shield up and out. The impact was colossal, a deafening clang of steel on steel that shuddered up his arm and into his teeth. He rode the blow, spinning with its momentum, using the Qunari’s own force.
As he completed the spin, his sword lashed out low and wicked-fast, not at armor but at the back of the charging Qunari’s lead knee. The tip bit deep into the tendon behind the joint. The warrior bellowed, his charge turning into a stumbling lurch. He sank to one knee.
A shadow fell over Kerr. The dual-wielder was above him, both swords raised high for a crushing, overhead blow. Kerr pivoted, bringing his shield straight up over his head, bracing with his whole body. The twin swords hammered down. The shockwave drove him down an inch into the clay. Splinters flew from the shield’s rim.
But the Qunari was over-extended, his chest exposed. In the same motion of catching the blow, Kerr twisted his wrist and thrust his longsword up and out, not with a wide swing, but a brutal, direct lunge. The point slipped past the edge of the mercenary’s breastplate, deep into the soft hollow of his armpit. Kerr felt the grating pop of severed ligaments, the hot rush of blood over his gauntlet. The Qunari’s roar became a wet gurgle. One sword clattered to the ground.
A hand closed like an iron vice around Kerr’s ankle. The greatsword-wielder, kneeling and wounded, was trying to drag him down. Kerr let himself fall, but controlled it, sprawling his weight backward onto the man. He wrenched his sword free from the dying dual-wielder in a spray of crimson and brought his shield—not the edge, but the heavy, steel-bossed center—down in a short, savage arc onto the back of the kneeling Qunari’s helm.
The sound was a sickening, final crunch of metal and bone. The grip on his ankle went limp.
As he pushed himself up, a sharp, mechanical thwip cut the air. His reflexes, honed in a hundred skirmishes in the Highever wilds, fired before his mind could process. He didn’t look.He just moved. His sword, still slick with blood, swept across his body in a silvery blur.
The crossbow bolt, meant for the gap between his breastplate and helm, hit the flat of his blade with a sharp ping and shattered into splinters.
A unified, startled gasp rippled through the crowd, a sound of pure disbelief. In the sudden ringing silence, Kerr rose to his full height, blood dripping from his sword and shield. The dual-wielder was on his knees, clutching his ruined shoulder. The greatsword-wielder lay motionless. Across the field, the third Qunari lowered his crossbow, a new wariness in his yellow eyes. He dropped the weapon and drew his mace.
Kerr adjusted his grip on his sword, the visor of his helm turning toward the final opponent.
Kerr adjusted his grip on his sword, the visor of his helm turning toward the final opponent.
Across the churned clay, the last Qunari hefted his spiked mace. His compatriot, the dual-wielder, still knelt in the dirt, his left arm hanging useless and slick with blood from the armpit wound. The wounded warrior’s breathing was a ragged, wet sound. He fumbled for his fallen sword with his right hand, his yellow eyes glazed with pain and fury. With a sudden, guttural roar, he pushed himself up and lunged, a clumsy, one-armed thrust aimed at Kerr’s throat.
Kerr quickly deflected the strike from the dual wielder, whose left arm was limp, with a short, sharp lift of his shield. Before the Qunari could recover, Kerr’s sword flashed down in a silver arc. It severed the mercenary’s arm mid-forearm. The hand, still clenched around its sword, thumped to the ground. The Qunari stared, stunned, at the spurting stump.
Kerr didn’t let him scream. He pivoted on his back foot, using the momentum of his deflection to fuel a spinning shield strike. The steel boss of his shield connected with the side of the warrior’s horned head with a crack like splitting stone. The Qunari’s head snapped sideways, his body twisting. As he crumpled, Kerr followed through with a thrust between the ribs that pierced the heart. The massive body went rigid, then slack, sliding off the blade to land in a heap beside its severed limb.
The sharp, familiar thwip-crack of the crossbow reached Kerr’s ears. He didn’t look. He simply raised his shield, turning his body slightly into the impact. The bolt struck the layered oak and steel dead center with a solid thump, the iron head punching through the outer layer but failing to penetrate fully. It quivered there, lodged like a malign insect.
Kerr looked at the crossbowman, who had already loaded another bolt and fired. This shot was rushed, high and wide. It hissed past Kerr’s shoulder and disappeared into the mist beyond the arena. The Qunari dropped the crossbow, his meaty hand closing around the handle of his mace. He was the biggest of the three, his horns curving like bull’s horns, his grey face a mask of grim professional resolve. He saw his dead brothers. He saw the man who killed them.
Kerr caught the bolt in his shield and stalked the only remaining mercenary.
Each of Kerr’s steps was deliberate, his boots sinking into the bloody clay. The Qunari began to circle, his mace held low. The crowd was utterly silent, the only sounds the crunch of grit underfoot and the distant, lonely cry of a crow.
The warrior rushed to meet him.
The Qunari came in hard, leading with his shoulder, mace swinging in a low, vicious arc for Kerr’s leading knee. Kerr skipped back, the spiked head whistling past his greave. He countered with a feint—a high slash that made the Qunari raise his arm to block—then dropped and drove his shield forward like a battering ram into the man’s exposed midsection. The breath exploded from the Qunari in a pained oof. He staggered but didn’t fall, bringing his mace down in a desperate, overhead smash.
Kerr caught it on his shield again, but this time he didn’t just absorb the blow. He angled the shield, deflecting the force downward, and stepped inside the Qunari’s guard. His sword pommel slammed up into the mercenary’s chin. Horns clacked together from the impact. The Qunari reeled, dazed.
In four moves the sequence of attacks between them culminated in Kerr’s sword penetrating the opponent’s sternum, piercing his heart, killing him instantly.
Kerr reversed his grip, dropped to a knee, and drove the point up under the breastplate with all the strength in his legs and back. The blade slid through leather, muscle, and bone with a soft, terrible friction. The Qunari stiffened, his yellow eyes widening, then dimming. He made a small, surprised sound, like a man who had forgotten a word. Kerr held the thrust, then gently lowered the massive body to the ground.
Silence.
It stretched, thick and choking, over the tourney grounds. The mist seemed to soak up the sound of breathing, the rustle of clothing. Kerr stood amidst the three fallen giants, his shield heavy with a spent bolt, his sword dripping a steady rhythm onto the churned earth. He took a deep, shuddering breath that tasted of iron and damp.
He knelt, planting his sword point-down in the clay beside him. He placed his shield over his knee.
And said a prayer over the men before removing his helmet.
His voice, muffled at first by the helm, grew clearer as he spoke. “You fought with honor, far from home. You upheld a contract, as your code demands. May the Maker see your bravery and guide you to a peaceful shore.” He touched two fingers to his forehead, then to his chest, a simple Fereldan gesture for the dead.
Then he reached up, unlatched the helm, and pulled it free. His hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat, his face streaked with grime and flecks of blood that weren’t his own. The cold morning air felt shocking on his skin. He looked past the bodies, past the stunned magistrate, to the dais where the Emperor sat, and then to the ashen-faced Duke.
He declared his victory proof of the couple’s innocence in the eyes of the Maker.
“The trial is concluded,” Kerr said, his voice raw but unwavering. He gestured to the bodies at his feet. “Their lives are the price of a lie. Let their deaths be proof of the couple’s innocence, in the eyes of the Maker and this court.” He looked directly at the Emperor. “Justice is served.”
The Emperor nodded. It was a small, precise motion, but in the absolute stillness, it was as final as a slamming door. His gaze held Kerr’s for a moment, assessing, before flicking with undisguised contempt to his nephew.
The Duke vomited.
It was a violent, retching heave, the sound horribly loud. Wine and bile splattered the fine silk of his robes and the dusty ground at his feet. He clutched his bandaged jaw, tears of pain and humiliation mixing with the sick on his chin. His attendants fluttered around him, helpless.
Fergus let out a long, slow breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour. He ruffled Oren’s hair, then stepped over the low barrier into the combat circle. He walked up to Kerr, his boots squelching in the mud. He didn’t say anything about the fight. He just looked at his brother’s face, then down at the prayer-said dead.
“You’ll need a new shield,” Fergus said quietly, nodding at the bolt still embedded in the wood. “That one’s seen better days.”
Kerr looked at it, then at the blood on his hands. A strange, light laugh bubbled up in his chest, born of sheer exhaustion and adrenaline’s crash. “The armorer’s bill goes to His Grace, I expect.”
“I’ll see to it,” Fergus said, a faint smile touching his own lips. He looked toward the Emperor, who was now standing, his expression unreadable. “But first, I think we’ve got some politics to navigate. And you,” he added, his voice dropping, “need a bath. You smell worse than a Denerim tavern privy.”
“Charming,” Kerr muttered, sheathing his sword. He felt every ache, every bruise flowering beneath his armor. The deep, hollow need for home, for a familiar bed and a specific scent of lavender, yawned inside him, wider and more insistent than ever.
The Emperor raised his hand, and the spell of silence broke. Servants rushed forward, some toward the Duke who was being helped, retching, from his seat, others toward the bodies. The magistrate began speaking, declaring the verdict, but his words were just noise. Kerr’s eyes found Gerard and Annette. The merchant had his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, his face buried in her hair. She was staring at Kerr, one hand over her mouth, her healed cheek wet with tears.
She mout two words: Thank you.
Kerr gave her the slightest nod. Then he turned, and with Fergus at his side, he walked out of the circle, leaving the mud, the blood, and the watching eyes behind. The path ahead led to the chateau, to diplomacy, to the long road home. For now, each step away from that field felt like a victory all its own.