Honor's Splendour

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They meant to kill him.

The warrior stood in the center of the desolate courtyard, his hands roped together and tied to a post behind his back. His expression was devoid of emotion as he stared straight ahead, outwardly ignoring his enemy.

The captive hadn't offered any resistance, allowing himself to be stripped to his waist without so much as a fist drawn or a word of protest spoken. His rich, fur-lined winter cloak, heavy hauberk, cotton shirt, stockings, and leather boots had all been removed and placed on the frozen ground in front of him. The enemy's intent was clear. The warrior would die, but without a new mark added to his battle-scarred body. While his eager audience watched, the captive could look at his garments while he slowly froze to death.

Twelve men surrounded him. Knives drawn to give them courage, they circled and jeered, yelling insults and obscenities as they stomped their boot-clad feet in an effort to ward off the frigid temperature. Yet one and all kept a safe distance lest their docile captive change his inclination and decide to break loose and attack. They had little doubt he'd be capable of the feat, for they'd all heard the tales of his Herculean strength. Some had even witnessed his superior prowess in battle a time or two. And if he tore through the ropes, the men would be forced to use their knives on him, but not before he sent three, possibly even four of them to their own deaths.

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