The Royal Tournament

by Richard H. Stephens

  A week had passed since that fateful night at the old Greene barn. Javen had heard correctly before succumbing to the beating he received, it was Captain Korn who had rushed to the old Greene barn with as many of the baron’s men as he could scrounge up along the way, the majority of them off duty. In the short time it took the captain and his men to get there, they found the battle already over.

  Helvius had been sitting around one of the tarpaulin city’s campfires and noticed Javen running toward the abandoned gristmill with grave concern written on his face. He’d tried to hail Javen, but the boy hadn’t heard him. Helvius had been around men long enough to realize something serious was afoot, so he set out to render whatever assistance he could. While trying to follow Javen’s trail, he informed an on-duty man-at arms about his concern regarding the baron’s prized entrant.

  It had taken Helvius time to stumble across the old Greene barn, finding Alcyonne’s bloodied body lying helpless upon the cold dirt floor. He arrived in time to witness the big brute deliver a rib-crushing blow to his other newly found friend restrained by four men against the red barn’s far wall. Erupting in a blind rage, he nearly brought the roof of the old Greene barn down.

  By the time Captain Korn and his men arrived, the surviving Ember Breath men were begging to be taken into custody.

  Clad in green and red patchwork livery, the town crier announced the tournament’s final joust.

  “Hear ye, hear ye. It is His Majesty’s delight to introduce to you, Prince Malcolm, Master of Lance and reigning Emperor of the Field.”

  The crowd rose to their feet, their cheers drowning out the crier’s announcement. “And his challenger, hailing from Storms End, Sir Nashon Oakes.”

  Trumpets sounded. All eyes fell on the northern pavilion, everyone eager to espy the heir to the Ivory Throne. All except the king’s.

  King Peter watched the bruised and battered countenances of Alcyonne and Javen. The two young men, in obvious discomfort, were somehow ignoring their pain and eagerly awaiting the arrival of the reigning Emperor of the Field, as excited as the rest of the crowd. The evening before, Prince Malcolm had drawn his younger brother in the lists and had beaten Prince Graham without much trouble.

  The trumpet’s staccato blare ceased as the prince trotted Firerider from the northern pavilion. After his squire had double-checked his saddle’s cinches, Malcolm directed his ebony charger to the end of the tilting rail. Without preamble, he bowed low over his saddle horn; his blonde locks falling around his shoulders. Sitting up, he gave his hair a slight flick to rid it from his eyes and gazed at the southern pavilion, his right hand holding his lance at ease, perpendicular to the field.

  “Enter God's blessed field, meek challenger, if thou darest?” the prince called. “Ride forth and know thee well, today ye shall be bested by the Emperor of the Field.”

  On cue, the large tent flaps of the southern pavilion opened outward, pulled by two handlers in black livery; their crests, a golden sun rising above a grey storm cloud, depicted upon five golden rays of sunshine emanating from below the thundercloud, emblazoned upon their backs.

  The challenger walked his ivory destrier onto the pitch. The knight sat high upon his massive horse dressed in gleaming black satin highlighted with golden thread piping. Such was his mantle, he appeared more regal than his royal adversary.

  The knight spurred his mount to a trot, bringing it to a halt alongside Prince Malcolm. As custom dictated, the knight from Storms End immediately offered the Emperor of the Field his lance, hilt first, bowing low over the pommel of his finely tooled saddle.

  “I submit to thee without contest should the Emperor deign it so.”

  The Emperor of the Field placed his left hand upon the lance handle. “Brave challenger, I would not dishonour your coat of arms without contest. Should ye decide now to withdraw from the tournament, I shan't begrudge your courage. What say ye, o' noble warrior?”

  The black-clad knight pulled his lance back onto his lap. He located his helmet hung upon a thong strapped to the saddle behind him, methodically undid the tie, and placed the golden, flat-topped helm upon his large head. He flipped open the face plate and bowed his head.

  “With all due respect, my liege, ward yourself well, for on this morn your storm shall end.” The Storms End knight pulled on his reins, urging his ivory mount about with a fancy sidestep, and approached the royal box.

  The Emperor of the Field fitted his vermillion plumed helm upon his head, and called after his challenger, “Then I say unto you, ware thee well, ye foolish knave!” He spurred Firerider after the Storms End knight.

  The crowd cheered the two riders approaching the royal box, their lances adorned with six vermillion ribbons each. The king’s awning was ablaze with every coat of arms in attendance, the pennants hanging limply in the still air on either side of his own house’s banner.

  King Peter gave the combatants leave to assume their respective starting places.

  Before Prince Malcolm spurred Firerider away, he shook the end of his lance. The tip quivered, causing a pennant to unfurl from its end. Emblazoned upon the triangular cloth was a picture of a volcano dominating a sandy island, paired with a smaller volcano dominating a second island, all upon an azure background.

  King Peter smiled, wondering where in the world his son had found such an obscure flag on short notice, especially here in Millsford. He must have commissioned a cloth merchant.

  Malcolm hoisted the lance high. “Aldebaran!”

  The crowd thundered to its feet, chanting, “Aldebaran. Aldebaran. Aldebaran.”

  Clapping, King Peter looked past Jarr-nash, touched by the smiles on Alcyonne and Javen’s battered faces—tears of heartfelt appreciation welling in their eyes.

  Alcyonne enjoyed hearing the crowd chant his country’s name. Prince Malcolm’s tribute touched him profoundly, while Javen appreciated the honour the masses bestowed upon his friend.

  The murmur in the stands died off, replaced by a palpable strain of curbed enthusiasm.

  King Peter surveyed the hushed crowd with a smile. These were his people, and as usual, they made him proud to be their sovereign.

  He pulled the white glove out from where it rested tucked into his belt and hoisted it high for all to see, large rings twinkling on the last two fingers of his right hand.

  The atmosphere hummed with the enthusiasm of the crowd. Watching the glove drop, they practically fell forward with it.

  The prince and his challenger adjusted their grips upon their leather-bound hafts, eyes focused upon the descending cloth. Each man took a large breath, their toes moving their stirrups forward, their secondary hands cinching their horses’ reins.

  The glove made contact with the turf.

  The crowd roared, watching the jousters spur hard, their horses exploding into a headlong gallop, muscles rippling, nostrils flaring; earth churning.

  Watching Firerider charge along the tilting rail, Javen marveled how the prince maintained such an erect posture in the saddle, with a challenger tearing down the pitch toward him intent on ripping his head off.

  The knight from Storms End rode his horse arrow straight, his right hand clutching the haft of his lance, his left hand strapped to the elbow, holding his shield fast.

  The first two passes ended in stalemates. The jousters shattered their lances upon their opponent’s intercepting shields, both men struggling to remain in their saddles under the force of such blows.

  The crowd held its breath in anticipation as the king signaled the third pass.

  Prince Malcolm’s mystique lay in how long he could hold his lance perpendicular to the tilting rail and keep his colourful shield resting upon his thigh, before finally dropping his lance to level with speed and control, raising his shield with equal precision, leaving the actions seemingly long past the last possible moment, affording his opponent little opportunity to gauge the tilt of his lance.


  The Storms End knight, poised to dethrone the Emperor of the Field, felt his breath leave him.

  A lightning quick up-thrust from Malcolm’s rapidly falling lance tip evaded the unfortunate man’s shield, catching him square in the centre of his breastplate. The spiked coronal crunched into the knight’s polished steel plate, eliciting a tooth aching sound of scraping metal.

  The Storms End knight spun his shoulders to the right in a desperate attempt to prevent the careening metal tip from slipping under his gorget—his lance shattering at the same moment upon the prince’s shield. His agility allowed him to spin fast enough in his saddle to avoid decapitation, but the evasive manoeuver shifted his weight in the saddle enough that his mount took it as a signal to turn harder than its speed would allow. Both rider and mount fell, the collision with the earth felt in the stands.

  With cool, practiced precision, Prince Malcolm regained control of his lance and hoisted the coronal high.

  The crowd went delirious, screaming and ranting about the wondrous skill of Zephyr’s beloved son.

  Javen and Alcyonne were on their feet embracing each other, oblivious to the hurt.

  King Peter knew well his son’s prowess upon the jousting pitch. He merely sat and clapped, along with his second son, Prince Graham. They had seen it countless times before.

  Jarr-nash, however, was on his feet, appreciating the spectacle of the prince’s finesse, knowing firsthand what it felt like to be unhorsed by such a sublime, yet lightning quick strike.

  Prince Malcolm trotted his horse around the southern end of the tilting rail, past the king’s box, and reined Firerider in beside the visibly shaken knight from Storms End.

  The unhorsed knight regained his feet with the help of his retainers and immediately attended his horse.

  The prince took no offence to the apparent slight, appreciating the bond between a man and his horse.

  Assured his horse was okay, the Storms End knight located his fallen lance, and approached the Emperor of the Field, helmet clutched between his left arm and body. Reaching the prince, he dropped to his right knee, and bowed his head. “I submit to thee, mine Emperor. I beseech thee, do unto me no further grief.”

  “Arise, Sir Nashon Oakes of Storms End. Ye have jousted well this tournament and have no need to bend your knee to me on the field. Take your shattered lance and know your skill shall be most welcome amongst the King’s Guard should you wish to enlist.”

  “I am humbled, my liege,” Oakes replied reverently, still on one knee, head bowed.

  The prince turned his horse toward the royal box, hefting his lance high into the air.

  The crowd cheered.

  Reaching the centre of the east stand he dismounted in a graceful flourish of billowing black, gold and vermillion robes, bending his knees slightly and landing with nary a sound. Two regal strides and a deep bow had him standing before the king.

  Malcolm’s squire rushed across the field with a new lance, complete with the six victory ribbons and the Aldebaran pennant. He exchanged the lance with the prince, bowed deeply to the king and scurried away.

  King Peter received Malcolm’s lance tip, and knotted the Emperor of the Field pennant to an open spot on the populated length of wood. The Emperor of the Field flag, red in colour, depicted a black silhouette of a knight sitting tall upon a horse, lance at ease, in relief upon a yellow background.

  The king looked beyond his son to the knight walking up behind Malcolm.

  “Well done, Sir Nashon Oakes. You have brought honour to Storms End.”

  The defeated knight bowed.

  The king smiled and looked proudly upon his son. He raised his voice for all to hear. “Congratulations to this year’s Master of Lance, Malcolm Alexander Svelte: Knight of the Realm, Captain of the King’s Guard, and first Prince of Zephyr. For three years running have you bested all comers. There is only one knight whom has more banners than thee, and he of course, is my champion.” The king paused to indicate Jarr-nash.

  The crowd clapped heartily. Jarr-nash, shy as ever, stood after a bit of prompting from the king, and gave a quick wave to the crowd, causing the noise level to rise appreciably.

  The king held up his hands, calming the crowd. “I also present to you, Prince Malcolm Alexander Svelte, this year’s Emperor of the Field.”

  The masses chanted, “Prince Malcolm. Prince Malcolm. Prince Malcolm.”

  Bowing his head in appreciation, the prince then took everyone by surprise, vaulting over the barrier separating the field from the stands. This time he thudded heavily, his armour clanging against the royal box as he came to a rest before Javen and Alcyonne. He gave Javen a quick handshake before turning to Alcyonne.

  The grounds became silent as the prince addressed the injured man from Aldebaran. “As Emperor of the Field, I bequeath my position unto you, Alcyonne of Aldebaran. For through your noble display of joy and goodwill toward everyone you have encountered here this week, whether they liked you or mocked you, your actions reflect what the Royal Tournament is all about. As my good father, the king, will attest, never has anyone been treated so poorly at the hands of men of Zephyr. Their actions bring our house into disrepute. Our realm, my realm, is shamed.”

  He paused.

  The stands were deathly still.

  “I assure you, and all gathered here under the protection of the house of Zephyr, that we do not, nor will not, tolerate such actions as those perpetrated upon this noble warrior from Aldebaran. Rest assured, the men in question, at least those who survived,” the prince gave the huge man from Serpens a wink, “are incarcerated, and shall face the full wrath of our good king. I have it on good authority said justice shall be swift, and if merited, most severe.”

  “Also, I have heard from a reliable source that you have need of a new horse and lance.” The prince nodded to Javen, as he presented his finely polished, beribboned lance to Alcyonne.

  The Aldebaranite looked at the lance with awe. Swallowing hard he looked straight into the prince’s eyes. He didn’t know what the prince had said to him, but he understood the intent. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Without warning, instead of grasping the proffered lance, and despite his injuries, he left his feet and embraced the startled prince, doing his best to squeeze the air from the prince’s royal lungs.

  When he finally released Malcolm, Alcyonne wrapped an arm over the prince’s shoulder. He snatched the lance with his other hand and hefted it into the air, his huge smile displaying a mouth full of broken teeth.

  It was then that Alcyonne saw the magnificent, dark brown quarter horse being led from the northern pavilion. He looked at the prince questioningly, with tears in his eyes.

  It was all Prince Malcolm could do not to cry himself, so he just nodded.

  With a voice belying his frail condition, the Aldebaranite shouted, “Yaw Bre!”

  The crowd exploded in thunderous unison.

  Javen had never been as happy for anyone in all his life. He surveyed the jubilation of the crowd, and then looked to the king.

  King Peter Malcolm Svelte was on his feet, clapping hard, and chanting louder than anyone else, “Yaw bre! Yaw bre! Yaw bre!”

  The End…

  … perhaps not.

  If you enjoyed this book, please look for, Of Trolls and Evil Things, scheduled for release October 15, 2017. Coming out at the beginning of 2018 is the Epic Fantasy, Soul Forge, a novel about the adult lives of the characters from these two stories and how they came to be together as their world crumbled down around them.

  Please visit my website: www.richardhstephens.com

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  A little about me.

 
Born in Simcoe, Ontario, in 1965, I began writing circa 1974; a bored child looking for something to while away the long, summertime days. My penchant for reading The Hardy Boys led to an inspiration one sweltering summer afternoon when my best friend and I thought, ‘We could write one of those.’ And so, I did.

  As my reading horizons broadened, so did my writing. Star Wars inspired me to write a 600-page novel about outer space that caught the attention of a special teacher who encouraged me to keep writing.

  A trip to a local bookstore saw the proprietor introduce me to Stephen R. Donaldson and Terry Brooks. My writing life was forever changed.

  At 17, I left high school to join the working world to support my first son. For the next twenty-two years I worked as a shipper at a local bakery. At the age of 36, I went back to high school to complete my education. After graduating with honours at the age of thirty-nine, I became a member of our local Police Service, and worked for 12 years in the provincial court system.

  In early 2017, I resigned from the Police Service to pursue my love of writing full-time. With the help and support of my lovely wife Caroline and our five children, I have now realized my boyhood dream.