Wintertide trr-5

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Mince sat for a second, and then a thought surfaced. He dropped the robe in horror and kicked it away. The robe's glow throbbed and grew fainter.

  "Ya ate him!" Mince cried. "Ya lied to me. Ya are cursed!"

  The light went out and Mince backed as far away as possible. He had to get away from the killer robe, but now it was lying between him and the exit.

  A silhouette passed in front of the opening, momentarily blocking the sunlight.

  "Mince?" Kine's voice said. "Mince, look. I got me lamb chops!"

  Kine entered and replaced the board. Mince's eyes adjusted until he could see his friend holding a pair of bloody bones. His chin was stained red. "I woulda saved you one, but I couldn't find you. By Mar, I was famished!"

  "Ya all right, Kine?"

  "I'm great. I'm still a little hungry, but other than that, I feel fantastic."

  "But last night…" Mince started. "Last night ya-ya-didn't look so good."

  Kine nodded. "I had all kinds of queer dreams that's for sure."

  "What kind of dreams?"

  "Hmm? Oh just odd stuff. I was drowning in this dark lake. I couldn't breathe 'cuz water was spilling into my mouth every time I tried to take a breath. I tried to swim, but my arms and legs barely moved-it was a terrible nightmare." Kine noticed the beef flank Mince still held. "Hey! You got some meat, too? You wanna cook it up? I'm still hungry."

  "Huh? Oh, sure," Mince said as he looked down at the robe while handing the beef to Kine.

  "I love Blood Week, don't you?"

  ***

  Trumpets blared and drums rolled as the pennants of twenty-seven noble houses snapped in the late-morning breeze. People filed into the stands at Highcourt Field on the opening day of the Grand Avryn Wintertide Tournament. The contest would last ten days, ending with the Feast of Tides. Across the city, shops closed and work stopped. Only the smoking and salting of meat continued as Blood Week ran parallel to the tournament, and the slaughter could not halt even for such an august event. Many thought the timing was an omen that signaled the games would produce a higher number of accidents, which only added to the excitement. Every year crowds delighted in seeing blood.

  Two years before, the Baron Linder of Maranon had died when a splintered lance held by Sir Gilbert pierced the visor of his helm. The same year Sir Dulnar of Rhenydd had his right hand severed in the final round of the sword competition. Nothing, however, compared to the showdown five years ago between Sir Jervis and Francis Stanley, the Earl of Harborn. In the final tilt of the tournament, Sir Jervis-who already bore a grudge against the earl-passed over the traditional Lance of Peace and picked up the Lance of War. Against council, the earl agreed to the deadly challenge. Jervis's lance pierced Stanley's cuirass as if it were parchment and continued on through his opponent's chest. The knight did not escape the encounter unscathed. Stanley's lance pierced Jervis's helm and entered his eye socket. Both fell dead. Officials judged the earl the victor due to the extra point for a head blow.

  Centuries earlier, Highcourt Field had functioned as the supreme noble court of law in Avryn. Civil disputes inevitably escalated until accused and accuser turned to combat to determine who was right. Soon the only dispute in contention became who was the best warrior. As the realms of Avryn expanded, trips to Highcourt became less convenient. Monthly sessions were eventually reduced to bi-yearly events where all grievances were settled over a two-week session. These were held on the holy days of Summersrule and Wintertide, in the belief Maribor was more attentive at these times.

  Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.

  Richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field, adorned in the distinct colors of their owners. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords' horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel-a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man's fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring that men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand's traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.

  Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the smith to adjust Hadrian's borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.

  "Here, sir," Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.

  "What's that for?" Hadrian asked.

  Renwick looked at him curiously. "It's your padding, sir."

  "Don't hand it to him, lad," Wilbur scolded. "Stuff it in!"

  Embarrassment flooded the boy's face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian's tunic.

  "Pack it tight!" Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian's chest, ramming it in hard.

  "That's a bit too tight," Hadrian complained.

  Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. "You might not think that when Sir Murthas's lance hits you. I don't want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly."

  "Sir Hadrian," Renwick began, "I was wondering-I was thinking-would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?"

  "Don't see why not. Are you any good?"

  "No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn't want me to embarrass him."

  "Are you really that bad?"

  "I've never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, 'A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.'"

  "Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy," Hadrian said.

  Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. "I have watched the events many times-studied them really-and I have ridden but never used a lance."

  "Why don't you get my mount and we'll have a look at you."

  Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter's chest.

  "Get aboard," Hadrian told the boy who grinned and scrambled into the high-backed saddle. Hadrian handed him a practice lance and the shield with green and white quadrants, which the regents supplied.

  "Lean forward and keep the lance tucked tight against your side. Squeeze it in with your elbow to steady it. Now ride in a circle so I can watch you."

  For all his initial enthusiasm, the boy looked less confident as he struggled to hold the long pole and guide the horse at the same time.

  "The stirrups need to be tighter," Sir Breckton said as he rode up.

  Breckton sat astride a strong white charger adorned with an elegant caparison of gold and blue stripes. A matching pennant flew from the tip of a lance booted in his stirrup. Dressed in brightly polished armor, he had a plumed helm under one arm and a sheer blue scarf tied around the other.

  "I wanted to wish you good fortune this day," he said to Hadrian.

  "Thanks."

  "You ride against Murthas, do you not? He's good with a lance. Don't underestimate him." Breckton studied Hadrian critically. "Your cuirass is light. That's very brave of you."

  Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy arm
or. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, where targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

  Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. "Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?"

  Hadrian looked confused for a moment. "Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight."

  Breckton chuckled. "You do realize that plate is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?"

  Hadrian shrugged. "I've never jousted in a tournament before."

  "I see." Sir Breckton nodded. "Would you be offended should I offer advice?"

  "No, go ahead."

  "Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse."

  "Again, thank you."

  "Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them."

  "Really?" Hadrian responded mischievously. "In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?"

  Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. "This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day-for her-and her honor." He looked out at the field. "It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy." Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

  Renwick returned and dismounted.

  "You did well," Hadrian told him, taking the squire's place on the charger. "You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we'll work on it some more."

  The boy carried Hadrian's helm in one hand and, taking the horse's lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. Entering the gate, they circled the alley and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

  Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family, blue for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

  Hadrian's father used to bring him to the games but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and only cared to discuss the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight did wrong and how he could have won.

  Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle-the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight's saddle was worth more than their home and his father's blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.

  As a youth, Hadrian had dreamed of fighting at Highcourt a million times. Unlike the Palace of the Four Winds, this field was a church to him. Battles were respectful-not to the death. Swords were blunted, archers used targets, and jousts were performed with the Lance of Peace. A combatant lost points if he killed his opponent and could be expelled from the tournament for even injuring a competitor's horse. Hadrian found that strange. Even after his father explained that the horse was innocent, he had not understood. He did now.

  A large man with a loud voice stood on a platform in front the purple section, shouting to those assembled, "…is the chief knight of Alburn, the son of the Earl of Fentin, and he is renowned for his skill in the games and at court. I give to you-Sir Murthas!"

  The crowd erupted in applause, drumming their feet on the hollow planks. Ethelred and Saldur sat to either side of a throne that remained as empty as the one in the banquet hall. At the start of the day, officials had announced that the empress felt too ill that morning and could not attend.

  "From Rhenydd he hails," the man on the box shouted as he gestured toward Hadrian, "only recently knighted amidst the carnage of the bloody Battle of Ratibor. He wandered forest and field to reach these games. For his first tournament ever, I present to you-Sir Hadrian!"

  Some clapping trickled down from the stands, but it was only polite applause. The contest was already over in the eyes of the crowd.

  Hadrian had never held a Lance of Peace. Lighter than a war lance, which had a metal tip, this one was all wood. The broad, flared end floated awkwardly but it was still solid oak and not to be underestimated. He checked his feet in the stirrups and gripped the horse with his legs.

  Across the sand-strewn alley, Sir Murthas sat on his gray destrier. His horse was a strong, angry-looking steed cloaked in a damask caparison covered in a series of black-and-white squares and fringed with matching tassels. Murthas himself held a lozengy shield and wore a matching surcoat and cape of black-and-white diamonds. He snapped his visor shut just as the trumpeters sounded the fanfare and the flagman raised his banner.

  Mesmerized by the spectacle, Hadrian's gaze roamed from the stands to the snapping pennants and finally to the percussionists beating on their great drums. The pounding rolled like thunder such that Hadrian could feel it in his chest, yet the roar of the crowd overwhelmed it. Many leapt to their feet in anticipation. Hundreds waited anxiously with every eye fixed upon the riders. As a boy in the white stands, Hadrian had held his father's fingers, hearing and feeling that same percussive din. He had wished to be one of those knights waiting at their gates-waiting for glory. The wish was a fantasy that only a young boy who knew so little of the world could imagine-an impossible dream he had forgotten until that moment.

  The drums stopped. The flag fell. Across the alley, Murthas spurred his horse and charged.

  Caught by surprise, Hadrian was several seconds behind. He spurred Malevolent and lurched forward. The audience sprang to their feet, gasping in astonishment. Some screamed in fear. Hadrian ignored them, intent on his task.

  Feeling the rhythm of the horse's stride, he became one with the motion. Hadrian pushed the balls of his feet down, taking up every ounce of slack and pressing his lower back against the saddle. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the lance, pulling it to his side and keeping its movement in sync with the horse's rapid gait. He calculated the drop rate with the approach of his target.

  The wind roared past Hadrian's ears and stung his eyes as the charger built up speed. The horse's hooves pounded the soft track, creating explosions of sand. Murthas raced at him, his black-and-white cape flying. The horses ran full out, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling, harnesses jangling.

  Crack!

  Hadrian felt his lance jolt then splinter. Running out of lane, he discarded the broken lance and pulled back on the reins. Hadrian was embarrassed by his slow start and did not want Murthas to get the jump on him again. Intent on getting the next lance first, he wheeled his charger and saw Murtha's horse trotting riderless. Two squires and a groom chased the destrier. Along the alley, Hadrian spotted Murthas lying on his back. Men ran to the knight's aid as he struggled to sit up. Hadrian looked for Renwick and as he did, he noticed the crowd. They were alive with excitement. All of them were on their feet, clapping and whistling. A few even cheered his name. Hadrian guessed they had not expected him to survive the first round.

  He allowed himself a smile and the crowd cheered even louder.

  "Sir!" Renwick shouted over the roar, running to Hadrian's side. "You didn't put your helm on!" The squire held up the plumed helmet.

  "Sorry," Hadrian apologized. "I forgot. I didn't expect them to start the run so quickly."

  "Sorry? But-but no one tilts without a helm," Renwick said, an astonished look on his face. "He could have killed you!"

  Hadrian glanced over his shoulder at Murthas h
obbling off the field with the help of two men and shrugged. "I survived."

  "Survived? Survived? Murthas didn't even touch you, and you destroyed him. That's a whole lot better than just survived. Besides, you did it without a helm! I've never seen anyone do that. And the way you hit him! You punched him off his horse like he hit a wall. You're amazing!"

  "Beginner's luck, I guess. I'm all done here, right?"

  Renwick nodded and swallowed several times. "You'll go on to the second round day after tomorrow."

  "Good. How about we go see how well you do at the carousel minor and the quintain. Gotta watch that quintain. If you don't hit it clean, the billet will swing around and knock you off."

  "I know," Renwick replied, but his expression showed he was still in a state of shock. His eyes kept shifting from Hadrian to Murthas and back to the still-cheering crowd.

  ***

  Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick, velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their station. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.

  "That's three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!" the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. "A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian's. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can't believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas…well it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed."