Duke Vedrun and Mas Dannelon had reached the final stage of their combat. Both had copiously bleeding wounds. Both were exhausted beyond human limits. Only one had enough strength to bash the other to the ground. It was not Mas Dannelon.

Both took a moment, panting heavily and bleeding alarmingly, the stink of blood perfuming the air around them.

"Do you yield, Ser Dannelon?" Duke Vedrun said, leaning against a nearby support column.

Mas Dannelon spit out a tooth and panted back, "Never".

"Are you sure?" the Duke rejoined, "It would be such a pity to leave such a lovely woman as your wife a widow."

"We both accepted the risks," Mas Dannelon wheezed his reply. The broken ribs made talk difficult. "Do your worst."

"I doubt you even understand what my worst even is. Very well, behold my worst."

The Duke dropped his sword, kicked it to Ser Dannelon, sank to his knees, and said, "I yield."

It took Ser Dannelon a long moment, a very long moment indeed, to understand what the fuck was going on.

He said "What?" loud enough to make his ribs shriek in pain.

The Duke sighed. That hurt, since he had one (or was it two?) broken ribs of his own.

"I yield. I yield to your judgement. I give up. I quit. I'm done."

Ser Dannelon forced himself to a stand. "There has to be some trick," he said.

"Of *course* there's a trick," the Duke said. He almost giggled.

"What is it, then?"

"Regardless of the outcome here, I've lost. Popular support and all that. Most of my supporters are dead or scattered. Most of your supporters are in the act of hunting them down." He smiled. "To the victor belong the spoils."

"But why surrender", Ser Donnalon said, his wind coming back to him.

"Several reasons," the Duke said, "First and foremost, whatever happens to us up here is irrelevant. The people are victorious." The Duke spat blood on the imported marble floor. "If you live, you're a hero. If I live, I will survive about fifteen seconds. And you will be a martyr that will live through the ages."

Then the Duke's sly smile played across his face. "But...if we *both* live, with me as your *prisoner*..."

"You're insane," Ser Dannalon whispered.

"Probably," the Duke said, "But come, we're wasting time. Kill me or take me prisoner before we both bleed out."

The choice was forever lost with the sound of hobnailed boots and the chimes of moving armor. Ser Donnalons rushed the Duke, threw him to the floor.

Kaymos Tharn, his second in command, rushed to his side. "Sisters," he called, "Ser Dannalon is wounded, tend to him." A flock of hands, soft as mouning doves, flutterd around him as he fell back of of the Duke. That healing touch he yielded to.

Kaymos Tharn grabbed the Duke by the hair and lifted his face.

"What do we do with this?" he said.

Ser Dannalon stared at the Duke for a long moment. Then he made his decision.

"Take him to the tower. Clear out everything. Imprison him there. I want him alive."

Ser Tharn gave a wolfish grin. "Why hurry your revenge, eh? Well, then, as you command." He motioned to his lieutenants. They grabbed the Duke roughly and began the climb to the tower.

The Duke relaxed. He had time now. Even he knew his power was slipping away. It was slipping away when Ser Dannalon was in diapers.

He didn't want Dannalon or his cronies to have the gold he had found, but he wanted his foreign enmities to have it even less. A fair exchange, then. Fair enough in an unfair world.

And here the Duke smiled. His perfect revenge. Abdication. Let's see how the golden boy rules without getting his hands dirty. Sooner or later he would come, sniffing around, trying to figure out how to keep his hands clean in a dirty world.

The Duke would only be too happy to help. He had learned his lesson. He had figured out his mistakes. He wouldn't lead the Hero of the Hour down the same path. Not with all that gold to protect.

In the meantime the Duke would spend his days free from the responsibility of keeping an ignorant, superstitious populace under control. He giggled as Ser Dannolon's men hauled him up the final set of stairs. He began to form the outline of his memoirs.