said Commander Morris, wiping the back of his hand over a bloodied mouth, “was dirty.” “There’s no etiquette in war, Morris. No whinging, either.” Laughter rippled through the handful of onlookers. Rig rapped his wooden sword against the edge of his shield. “Let’s go.” Morris spat blood onto the dirt and squared his feet. His lip curled into a half snarl, a look Rig had learned to respect. Like his commander, Morris fought best when he was in a bit of a temper. Probably shouldn’t goad him, then. The thought came too late to do Rig any good. A family trait, that. Morris circled him, closing a little distance with each step. He was taller than Rig, and stronger with a one-handed blade, taking full advantage of his reach. Rig would have felt better with his greatsword, but he’d opted for the blade and buckler today, precisely because he was less comfortable with it. He had a feeling he was going to pay for that choice.
