by David Estes
Most of them were the usual combatants. An old, grizzled knight named Sir Eldric that Annise had watched a hundred times. Drunk Craig, a red-faced knight who was better known for his love of the drink than his battle prowess. Sir Jonius, a solid swordsman, twice victorious over the last five tourneys. (Jonius had always been kind to Annise, which was somewhat surprising considering the atrocities he carried out on her father’s behalf.) Lord Griswold Gäric, her uncle, was notably absent, his spot being taken by his son, Dirk, who was participating in his first melee. (Annise’s cousin had never been kind to her, and she secretly hoped he would be shamed with an early elimination.)
There were several newcomers as well, though only two caught her eye. The first was announced as Sir Dietrich of Gearhärt. He appeared of similar age to her brother, and yet more hardened, his jaw set in determination. A long, jagged scar ran from his temple to his chin, and his armor was dented and pocked. Gearhärt was a border city, just north of Raider’s Pass along the edge of the Mournful Mountains. The mountains were the main barrier separating the north from both the west and east. Annise wondered whether this young knight had seen true battle or if his scar was the result of some accident. The state of his armor seemed to suggest the former. Despite his scar, he was exceptionally handsome, and something about him made her want to cheer him to victory.
The second newcomer of note was a giant of a man, adorned in all black armor, scrubbed to a pristine shine. He wore black gloves and high black boots. Not a spot of skin was visible, including his face, which was masked by some kind of mesh, with only a slit for his dark eyes. As he raised an enormous black-spiked ball dangling from a long chain, he was announced only as the Armored Knight. Annise’s uncle scoffed at the title. “What kind of name is that?” he said. “And what kind of weapon is that?”
Arch agreed. “He’ll be the first to fall. All image and no substance.”
“Haven’t you been reading the tournament streams?” Annise asked.
Streaming had been discovered several decades earlier, by a scholar studying flora and fauna along the Spear. There was a reedy plant that seemed to grow in plenty along the banks of rivers, streams, ponds, and lakes across the Four Kingdoms, almost without exception. The scholar found when she broke the stalk in half, a black, inky substance oozed out. The scholar harvested several of the plants, which were now known as inkreed, to study them later on, and then made her way upstream. Walking along the embankment, she slipped in the mud, tumbling into the river. She clung to a piece of wood, watching as the ink from the broken plants created dark spirals in the current. Then the strangest thing happened: The ink disappeared. At first she thought the ink had just been washed away, but when she experimented with more stalks from her supply, she found the ink would literally vanish each time. When she made her way back downstream to collect more samples, she was astonished to find the water of the river filled with inky spirals, exactly the same as the ones that had disappeared further upstream.
Years later, the process of streaming had been perfected. Although no one really knew why the inkreeds worked the way they did, most scholars conjectured that it had something to do with how all bodies of water were connected, and that plant life naturally wished to return to where it was grown. So now, if the ink from an inkreed harvested from a certain location was used to write a message on parchment, the message could then be dipped into any body of water, where it would vanish, reappearing in the water from where the inkreed originally grew. Furthermore, if a blank piece of parchment was dipped into the water where the message had reappeared, the ink would infuse itself onto the new sheet. Then all the receiver would have to do was dry it out. Streaming was an amazing communication breakthrough and was now more widely used than messenger birds, with an entire network of inkreeds cultivated at various locations, labelled, and then delivered across the Four Kingdoms to those willing to pay for the luxury.
Annise never missed a chance to read the incoming news streams, especially the ones about the various tournaments held across the northern realm.
Now, Arch just stared at her blankly.
“You know, read? Forming words from letters, sentences from words, entire stories from sentences?”
He yawned. “Sorry, I think I fell asleep for a second. Were you saying something?”
She shook her head, astounded at the heights his ignorance had reached. “Well, if you had been reading the tournament streams, you would know the Armored Knight rarely loses. He’s been winning tourneys from Darrin to Blackstone and everywhere in between.”
“Still, I doubt he’ll win the biggest tournament of all,” Arch said. “Just look at him, I’ll be surprised if he can even swing that odd weapon.”
Annise did look at him. There was something dangerous about the man. All her experience with such events told her he was one to watch. His weapon was like a mace, but modified, with a chain instead of a club. Arch was right to be skeptical—she’d never seen anyone wield such a device.
“Who are you taking this year?” Arch asked.
“You first,” Annise said. Predicting the winner had been a sibling tradition as long as she could remember. At last count they were tied.
“Sir Jonius for the third time in six years,” Arch said without hesitation.
It was a good pick, but Annise had a feeling they were in for a surprise. “I’ll take the big one,” she said. “The Armored Knight.”
“The bigger they are…” Arch said, grinning.
“The harder they hit,” Annise finished.
When the combatants were all announced and in position, the Ice Lord raised his pale hand and squeezed it into a fist. “Warriors!” he said, his voice like a gust of icy wind. “The victor shall claim a position in the King’s Defense. Now fight!”
Annise leaned forward eagerly as frozen hell broke loose. Drunk Craig staggered across the uneven terrain and was quickly cut down by Sir Dietrich, who spun with exceptional grace, his sword like an extension of his arm. Drunk Craig dropped his sword and rolled away, shouting, “I submit! A drink! A drink! I need a drink!” Beside her, Arch guffawed loudly.
Toward the far side of the field, the Armored Knight was surrounded by a trio of experienced knights, including Sir Eldric. The gang-up was a common method of eliminating newcomers. All three knights were already members of the King’s Defense, and would likely remain allies during the melee until only they were left.
Annise knew she’d chosen poorly; she should’ve considered such a possibility. She sighed, waiting for the inevitable.
It never came. Instead, the Armored Knight dodged one knight’s sword, whipping the chain around with deadly speed. The spiked metal ball crashed into the knight’s helmet and he flew back into Sir Eldric. The third knight attacked from behind, but the Armored Knight was ready, thrusting an elbow backwards into the man’s jaw. With a roar, he grabbed the knight and slung him down, forcing him to submit.
By then Sir Eldric had regained his feet and, more warily this time, moved forward into position. With perfect form, he slashed his sword in an attacking stroke, but his enormous foe was unimpressed, simply sidestepping and wrapping his weapon’s chain around the old knight’s throat. Sir Eldric promptly dropped his sword and submitted.
Just like that, the Armored Knight had dispatched three members of the King’s Defense.
“Whoa,” Arch said. “You weren’t wrong about him. He hits hard.”
Annise realized she was on her feet now, even if she couldn’t remember standing up. Arch followed her lead, motioning across the area.
In the other corner of the field, it was down to Sir Jonius, Cousin Dirk, and Sir Dietrich. Dirk was clearly outmatched by both knights, launching himself with reckless abandon as they easily parried his blows. However, mostly by chance, he found himself behind Sir Jonius as the knight faced off against the newcomer from Gearhärt. Annise’s cousin took advantage of the situation, rapping his sword across the previous victor’s knees and assuring himself a covete
d spot in the final three.
His father, Lord Griswold, howled with delight. Annise gritted her teeth.
“That was a dirty trick,” Arch said angrily, his pick having been eliminated. “The day is yours, little sister.” Simply to prove that she was in no way ‘little’, Annise muscled him to the side amidst brotherly protests.
She laughed as he bumped her back. They turned their attention back to the melee, ignoring their uncle’s disapproving glare.
As Dirk Gäric and Sir Dietrich circled each other, the Armored Knight waited patiently. Annise wondered why he didn’t attack. While they were distracted with each other, he could easily seize victory. And yet, he remained as still as stone, watching, waiting for his turn. Was it a sense of honor and fairness that held him in check? If so, his restraint was immensely appealing to Annise, especially considering the unfair odds he’d already faced. Not to mention the brute strength he’d already exhibited.
Dirk, to Annise’s surprise, began to fight brilliantly, almost as if he’d been feigning youth and weakness before. Her uncle laughed and slapped his knees. “That’s my boy! Victory! Victory!”
But Sir Dietrich’s sword was just as quick, defending against an assault as fierce as a winter storm.
“What in frozen hell?” her uncle muttered, as Sir Dietrich turned defense into offense and drove Dirk back. The eighteen-year-old stumbled and fell, scrabbling for his sword. He froze when Sir Dietrich managed to thrust the tip of his long blade just short of the boy’s neck.
“Do you submit?” the knight asked calmly.
The collective crowd held their breath, waiting for Dirk’s response.
“Yes,” the boy said and the audience exhaled, cheering for the knight. However, the moment Sir Dietrich turned his back to face his final opponent, Dirk swept up his sword, kicked to his feet, and slashed at the knight’s legs, much in the way he’d incapacitated Sir Jonius.
“No!” Annise shouted, but Sir Dietrich was already turning, already aware of the attack, already blocking the blow, spinning his sword, flipping the boy’s weapon in the air, and catching it in his other hand. It was one of the most brilliantly executed maneuvers Annise had ever seen.
Dirk’s eyes widened as both blades pressed up against his chest. “You already submitted,” Sir Dietrich said. “Bad form.”
Dirk’s face was splotched with the red of embarrassment and the white of fear, but he nodded and left the field of battle. When he was clear, Sir Dietrich flung the captured sword in the boy’s direction and it landed with a thunk in the ground beside him, point down. The boy gritted his teeth as half the crowd laughed at him and the other half cheered in appreciation of the knight’s mastery of the sword.
“Good ol’ Cousin Dirk,” Arch whispered, and Annise was forced to stifle a laugh with her hand.
“That knight is out of control,” Lord Griswold said between clenched teeth.
But there was nothing he could do—at least not yet. His son was eliminated and the melee was continuing, with only the two newcomers, Sir Dietrich and the Armored Knight, remaining. Annise could barely restrain herself from cheering for them both. Not for the first or last time, she wished she wasn’t forced to maintain the sensibilities required of a princess of the north. She longed to be down there with the commoners, screaming with unbridled glee, just another face in the crowd.
Arch, on the other hand, howled his delight without regard for royal dignity, which only made her more jealous of him than she already was.
“C’mon, Sister,” Arch said. “Scream with me.”
She wished she could. But if she did, her father would surely hear of it, and then she would have to face his wrath.
The final two warriors squared off across from each other. The Armored Knight began swinging his weapon in a slow arc over his head, gaining momentum with each rotation. Sir Dietrich watched the spiked ball, several times trying to infiltrate its deadly path before being forced to retreat to avoid getting his bones crushed.
On Sir Dietrich’s next attempt, the Armored Knight changed the ball’s direction, managing to land a glancing blow off the knight’s breastplate. When he leapt forward, however, Sir Dietrich launched a counterattack, catching the chain with one hand while sweeping his sword low with the other. With impressive agility for such a large man, the Armored Knight leapt over the blade, twisting rapidly in an attempt to rip his mace free.
Sir Dietrich held tight, and the pair of warriors grappled for ten long seconds, until the knight from Gearhärt thrust aside the chain and whipped his sword back and forth faster than Annise had ever seen in her life. The Armored Knight did his best to block each blow, but he was eventually overcome, losing his grip on the chain and dropping to one knee in submission. “Well fought,” he said to Sir Dietrich, who responded in kind.
The crowd roared their approval, and despite her chosen warrior’s defeat, Annise could no longer hold her appreciation in. She howled like a wolf while her brother did the same, grinning from ear to ear. Lord Griswold grabbed them both by the collars of their cloaks, and said, “Disgraceful. Wait until your father hears of this.”
For once, Annise didn’t care about being punished. It was worth it.
Her uncle said, “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Ice Lord—with me!”
Annise didn’t know what was happening. Yes, Dirk had been shamed, but he’d lost fairly, despite having cheated. Arch leaned in next to her. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that. Sir Dietrich must be skinmarked. And if he is and never pledged his power to the crown, he will be executed.”
Skinmarked? Annise hadn’t considered the possibility. Yes, the knight had fought brilliantly, but surely it was all of his own ability. Right? They can’t execute him. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. Her father could and would execute anyone he believed had defied him. And it was true, under northern law, not declaring a skinmark was an act of treason.
Lord Griswold reached the field, the Ice Lord a step behind him. Her uncle’s thick brown beard was matted with ice and he kicked up snow as he walked. Sir Dietrich dropped to one knee as Lord Griswold approached him. “My lord,” he said. “I am honored in victory and stand ready to claim a position in the King’s Defense.”
“Are you skinmarked?” Lord Griswold asked.
Sir Dietrich tilted his chin up. “No,” he said. “Not everyone needs a mark of power to be strong.”
“On your feet!” Lord Griswold roared. “Armor off. Underclothes off. You will be searched from head to toe.”
Sir Dietrich’s expression didn’t change. He stood slowly, his sword still in hand. For a moment Annise thought he might attack her uncle. For a moment she wished he would.
But then he dropped his sword in the snow and began to undress. His helmet clanked when it hit the ground, followed closely by each piece of battered armor.
Someone in the crowd protested, stepping forward. Lord Griswold said nothing, merely motioning to the Ice Lord, who strode toward an old man with a bent cane. He was still shouting in anger at the way the melee’s victor was being treated.
No, Annise thought. Not again. The last time was a pig farmer who had failed to pay a fifth of his production to the crown. That was horrible. This would be worse.
The old man was a tough old coot, and didn’t back away, even when the Ice Lord towered over him. “You have been judged and found guilty,” he said, with all the authority of the crown. He reached out and touched the man’s forehead with a single finger, almost reverently.
At first nothing happened, and Annise dared to hope that something had changed. But no, there it was—a spark of blue.
The Ice Lord turned and walked away as the blue spread along the man’s withered body, his veins freezing in blue trails that bulged from his skin. Cracks began to form in his flesh, and then his body broke into chunks, collapsing in a frozen pile.
“Poor ol’ chap,” Arch said.
Annise looked away. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run down and pou
nd her fists against the Ice Lord’s chest.
Instead, she did nothing but watch in horror as Sir Dietrich was stripped naked. Annise bit her lip, relishing the pain, which helped distract her from the battleground that was the knight’s battle-hardened flesh. Long scars, short scars, some jagged, some clean, some dark and fresh, others fading away—Sir Dietrich’s skin had them all.
Even Lord Griswold seemed shocked by the truth, raising the edge of his lip in a disgusted sneer. “Torch!” he said, and a guard rushed forward. Slowly, he moved the flames across Sir Dietrich’s skin.
Annise’s heart pounded in her chest. Please don’t be marked, please, please, please…
Scars were illuminated and passed by. A royal barber was called forth to shave the knight’s head, which was also scarred in at least a half-dozen places. The job was almost finished when the guard hovered the torch over a large scar on the knight’s back, round and black and mottled. Lord Griswold leaned closer to inspect it. “What is this from? The large one.”
Sir Dietrich’s face didn’t so much as flinch. “Three years ago the westerners tried to fight their way through Raider’s Pass. I was there. They caught me. They held me down. They stuck a torch to my flesh, much like you’re doing now, except they went all the way. They burned me.”
Lord Griswold released an inappropriate laugh. “Bastards!” he declared. “Get dressed. You are hereby deemed the winner of the Northern Melee in the year 532 of the Four Kingdoms. You will be sworn into the King’s Defense immediately.” He turned on his heel and departed without apology. He grabbed his son, Dirk, by the scruff of his collar and dragged him away like a child.
Annise touched a hand to her heart and felt it begin to slow.
“Well, that was close,” Arch said. “I have a feeling I’m going to like Sir Dietrich.”
Annise was thinking the same thing.
Unfortunately, her thoughts were slashed away when her uncle shouted her name. It was time to face her father.
