"What about making him smile?" Facing Brand, Madox shoved eagerly to his feet and leaned over the table. "Does that count?"

"Absolutely." Brand nodded. "But there must be a witness to the deed, or no winner can be declared."

One by one, each man uttered, "Agreed."

"I will hear no more talk of this." When had he lost control of this conversation? "I-" Darius snapped his mouth closed. His blood was quickening with darkness and danger, and the hairs at the base of his neck were rising.

The mist prepared for a traveler.

Resignation rushed through him and on the heels of that was cold determination. He eased up, his chair skidding slightly behind him.

Every voice tapered to silence. Every expression became curious.

"I must go," he said, the words flat, hollow. "We will discuss a tournament of sword skill when I return."

He attempted to stride from the room, but Tagart leapt up and over the table and swiveled in front of him. "Does the mist call you?" the warrior asked, casually leaning one arm against the door frame and blocking the only exit.

Darius gave him no outward reaction. But then, when did he ever? "Step out of my way."

Tagart arched an insolent brow. "Make me."

Someone snickered behind him.

With or without his approval, it seemed the game had already begun.

Darius easily lifted Tagart by his shoulders and tossed the stunned man aside, slamming him into the far wall. He thudded to the floor in a gasping heap. Without facing the others, Darius asked, "Anyone else?"

"Me," came an unhesitant and unrepentant reply. A blur of black leather and silver knives, Madox rushed to stand at his side, watching him intently, gauging his reaction. "I want to stop you. Does that make you angry? Make you want to scream and rail at me?"