by Phil Tucker
He sneered. “I’ve faced the greatest knights in the realm and never been defeated. What chance do you really think you have against me?”
The other knights were all watching. She felt the weight of their eyes. Her leather armor creaked as she leaned forward. “Watch your back, Kitan. I’m taking you out. And when you’re lying on the mud with my foot on your face, I’ll remind you of this exchange.”
Ser Wyland gave a low whistle, and Kitan snapped his visor down. “You’ll rue those words, sweet Kethe. Once the signal has been given, I’ll forget you’re family and a woman. You want to play at war? Then come at me. I’m more than willing to play.”
He turned his horse and rode back to the other Laur knights.
“Well,” said Ser Wyland, gazing out over the field. “That’s one way to make sure you have an easy first fight.”
“I don’t want easy,” snapped Kethe.
“Clearly not,” said Asho. He grinned at her, and she realized that she’d never seen him smile like that. It brought life to his normally dour and sullen features. “Just leave some for the rest of us, will you? I promised Ser Wyland at least six of them.”
Kethe couldn’t help but smile back. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
In the stands, Lady Kyferin was speaking with Lord Laur. She finally seemed to agree to something and rose to her feet. The crowd silenced as everyone turned to her. She spoke to Menczel, who rose up and called out in his rich voice so that all could hear.
“The prize for today’s melee is a golden cup, blessed by the Ascendant and brought from Sige by the Lady Kyferin herself.”
Whispers of excitement flickered through the throng, and several of the knights sat up straighter, each as attentive as a hunting hound waiting for the signal to spring.
“Lady Kyferin has accepted Lord Laur’s suggestion that his knights face the rest combined. As such, will his knights please ride to the far side of the field. This is to be a contest in the classic manner, held in honor of the late Lord Kyferin; both sides are to ride against each other three times, and then those who are still mounted are to dismount and engage the opposition on foot. Combat shall continue until one side has surrendered completely. The greatest knight shall receive the cup, and the winning side an equal measure in gold coin.”
Kitan’s mount sprang forward and the other seven knights followed him to canter across the field, where they turned and lined up. They looked glorious, the sunlight gleaming on their armor, their brightly colored tabards and high-spirited mounts giving them a romantic and dashing air. Were Kethe still in the stands, she might have favored them. They were clearly the better armed, most united, and professional company here.
Looking at her companions, she resisted the urge to wince. There were ten of them, an advantage that she was sure would quickly evaporate after the first charge. Ser Wyland took the center of the line, Kethe to his left, Asho to his right. The other newly arrived knights flanked them, with the Black Knight at the far left. They were a mismatched company, some wearing armor too large for them, their armorers not having had time to make adjustments, while others were holding their lances awkwardly. Young knights. Untested, unproven, and with who knew how much training.
“All right, my brothers and sisters, listen up.” Ser Wyland sat large and confident in their center. Everyone stilled and turned to him. “This is going to happen fast and rough. We’re strangers to each other, but before us lies our enemy, and for the next hour we are family. Ride hard, and when you reach the far side of the field, turn and wait my mark.”
Ser Wyland’s voice sent a thrill down Kethe’s spine. She nodded, eager to show that she understood, and saw that many of the other knights did as well. Ser Wyland smiled broadly, his eyes shining. “Look for me. Line up beside me, and wait till I give the order to charge for the second pass. Order and control are worth more here than individual skill. Save your heroics for when you hit the ground. While mounted, you are mine, you are part of this line, you are the hammer and every ugly face looking at us from over there is your personal anvil. Do you hear me?”
A number of the knights shouted their agreement, their horses shying and pawing at the air with their hooves.
“Any moment now.” Ser Wyland pulled on his helm and his voice became muffled. “Ride slow to begin with. Nobody pass me. Save the gallop for the very last second. I’ll set the pace. Don’t let excitement or fear get to your head. Slow and steady, right up till the last, then we knock them on their fat arses and turn to mop up the rest. Clear?”
Menczel had stepped up to where the trumpeters were watching Lady Kyferin for the signal. Squires were racing into position with extra lances. Everyone in the crowd was on their feet. It seemed as if the entire world were holding its breath.
Brocuff had given Kethe several months’ worth of lance training, but he’d told her up front that he was no knight. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. She could barely breathe, couldn’t swallow. All she could remember was how over and over again she’d failed to put her lance through the small ring Brocuff had hung from a branch, and that with riding at it at only a canter. The lance towered above her, eight feet long and made of beautiful and supple ash. She yearned to draw her sword instead.
“Here we go,” said Ser Wyland, and the trumpets blew.
Kethe almost dug her heels into Mexus’ flanks, almost urged him into an explosive gallop. She barely managed to check the impulse and instead simply clucked him forward. Ser Wyland led the line, moving at an easy trot, lance held erect. Before them the eight Laur knights did the same, their line perfect, their legs almost touching, so close were they riding to each other.
“Easy,” called Ser Wyland, his voice powerful and carrying even with his helm on. “Stay close. Now, a little faster, shall we?” He urged his mount into a canter, moving ahead so that they formed a very shallow ‘V’.
Kethe felt like a child atop Mexus, suddenly clumsy as fear swamped her anew. The Laur knights were moving steadily toward them, and the crowd was screaming, a shrill, surreal sound that made the acid burning her stomach all the worse. She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body felt numb. What had she been thinking?
“All right!” bellowed Ser Wyland over the drumming of their hooves. “Lower lances! Send them to the Black Gate, men! Charge!”
Madness erupted. Kethe did as she was bid, the tip of her lance weaving down through the sky to point at the great knight before her. She leaned forward, digging her knees into Mexus, and he responded by opening up into a gallop. It was like riding an avalanche. She raised her shield with the other arm, lance tucked against her ribs, and stared at her opponent. It was the massive brute, Ser Bero, astride what looked to be a plow horse, a moving wall of flesh and green steel. His antlers gleamed, their points shod in iron, and his lance was an oak tree, as thick as her arm.
The thunder became a crescendo. She was yelling at the top of her voice, her whole body tensed, the world reduced to one small point, and then the lines collided. She heard screams, the shattering of lances, the resounding clash of metal, dirt clods flying everywhere.
Kethe took Beros’ lance full on her shield, and tried to twist at the last moment so as to deflect it at an angle. It was like galloping into a wall. Her own lance shattered, though she had no idea where it had hit, and then the world became a bright smear. The earth and sky flipped, then again, then everything went white as she smashed to the ground, hitting the field so hard that she bounced, rolled, and came to a stop in a crumpled heap.
Roars, cheers, and screams filled the air around her. She felt like puking. Her lungs no longer worked. She lay on her side, mouth gaping like a landed fish’s. She couldn’t even wheeze. Reflex more than anything else had her roll onto her front and push up onto her knees.
Suddenly her lungs opened and she gasped, tears springing into her eyes. Her whole left side was throbbing, every bone wrenched. The world was doubled, her vision blurred. With a cry of anger she forced her feet under herself and stood,
though doing so nearly made her sick. The world swayed, but she managed to keep her feet.
People were yelling her name. Reaching up, she adjusted her helm, settling it back into place, and finally took in the grounds around her.
The Laur knights were wheeling, taking up fresh lances from their squires, forming a new line. Kethe counted. Six remained mounted. She turned and saw that only four of their own knights were turning to form up again. Ice flooded her veins. Ser Wyland, Asho, the Black Knight, and a young knight with a crimson surcoat emblazoned with a white lily.
They’d dropped two of the enemy and lost five of their own. Not good. Looking around, she saw the two fallen Laur knights gaining their feet, drawing their blades and backing away. Kethe cursed, drew her own sword, and immediately she felt better with the blade in her hand. This, she knew. This, she could control.
Three of the fallen knights from her side weren’t moving. The other one rose, his left arm hanging loosely by his side.
“Come on!” She beckoned to him. “Get out of the way!”
He jogged over just as the trumpets sounded and the two lines charged each other again. Kethe watched, her heart in her mouth. The distance between them was much shorter this time, and both sides immediately threw themselves into a full gallop, lances leveled. The other knight hurried over to stand beside her and they watched as the knights collided.
The sound was terrible. Splinters of wood flew. Knights fell, their horses rearing, and the survivors rode on to turn again. Kethe’s hopes sank. Only Ser Wyland and the Black Knight made it to the far side. Two more of Laur’s nights had fallen, including the massive Ser Bero, unhorsed by the Black Knight.
“Two against four,” said her companion, voice bitter. “Ser Laur, the Golden Vipers, and Ser Olbrecht. Damn them!”
Asho was lying on his side in the dirt. Kethe cursed and ran out into the center to crouch by his side. He was groaning, but sat up as she reached him.
“Asho! Get up!”
“Who said being a knight was a good idea?” He took her hand, however, and hauled himself up.
The other two knights were also standing, and just in time—the trumpets sounded. The horses began to gallop. Kethe wanted to scream in frustration. Two against four. Impossible.
Ser Wyland and the Black Knight lowered their lances and galloped fiercely toward the enemy. They collided for a third and final time, and the Black Knight unhorsed Ser Olbrecht, who smashed down to the earth. Ser Wyland drove his lance straight into Kitan, whose own lance shattered on Ser Wyland’s shield even as one of the twins caught him in the side. Ser Wyland reeled in his saddle, almost sliding right off the back, but somehow managed to hold on, gripping his pommel and hauling himself erect through sheer bloody strength and determination.
Kethe screamed with a savage pride and joy—they’d kept two men up! The Golden Vipers and Kitan turned and stared as Ser Wyland drew his sword and pointed at Kitan, then down at the tourney floor. The crowd was deafening as it cheered and roared. The riding was over. Lord Laur’s men had won the jousting, but only barely. The bloodiest, hardest work was yet to come.
Kethe shook out her arms and swung her blade back and forth in a vicious figure eight. “All right, boys,” she said, and realized that she was grinning. “It’s time to show them what we can do.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ser Tiron’s breath was a harsh rasp within his battered helm. He threw his shattered lance contemptuously down onto the ground, but resisted the urge to pluck his helm free too. His armor wasn’t worth a cup of mule’s piss, rusted and battered as it was. Once it had been worth a fortune, but Lord Kyferin had spared no effort to insult him; for three long years it had been strapped to the tilting dummy for the knights to practice on. He’d laughed at the sight of it the night he had been released and had almost thrown it on the refuse heap, but pride, bitter pride, had made him take it down. He’d left the castle and ridden for two days to reach the ruins of his family home. It was there that he’d worked on the armor, managing to restore it to some semblance of functionality. That it had lasted three rounds of the joust was a bloody miracle.
He swung his leg over the pommel of his borrowed horse and slid to the ground. The sensation jarred him his bones. Three years he’d rotted in an underground cell. He’d lost much of his strength and vitality. But no matter. While his body might be failing, his will was yet unbroken.
“Well done,” said Ser Wyland, stepping up beside him. “Your name, ser knight? I would know beside whom I fought.”
“Piss off, Jander.” Ser Tiron drew his blade. “Watch yourself, because I won’t.”
His family sword gleamed in the sun. This at least Ser Kyferin hadn’t ruined; instead, he’d hung it on his wall as a trophy. The blade was freshly oiled and sharp enough to shave with, and its hilt felt as familiar in his palm as Sarah’s own hand had once done.
The Laur knights had already engaged those who had fallen during the first two passes. Oaths, yells, and the clangor of battle filled the air. Ser Tiron swirled his blade around in a vicious arc, his body awakening to years upon years of training for war. An old hunger stirred within him. For too long he’d been cooped up like an animal. For too long his rage had built without release.
It was time to unleash it.
Tiron loped out to the side like a wolf tracking prey along the edge of a wood. He circled the melee, in no hurry to close. The winner would be the last man standing, not the first to fall.
The action in the center was getting serious. That fool girl was fighting back to back with the Bythian. Around them men were squaring off, swords clashing, some forcing their way forward, others giving ground. Ser Tiron studied the combat, moving easily, searching for prey. For weakness. Where to strike?
There was a bellow as Ser Wyland charged straight into the center of the fray. “For the Black Wolves! For Lady Kyferin!” That turned heads. Good. Ser Tiron marked where the giant Ser Bero was hammering at a young knight half his size, each blow battering at the man’s blade, driving him back and down to one knee. Beyond him the twins were fighting as a pair, each holding two blades, a short sword and a slaughter seax, spinning with impressive speed and skill. Kitan Laur was standing at the back, waiting, longsword resting on his shoulder, watching as Jander Wyland engaged a nameless Laur knight.
Well, then. Tiron grinned mirthlessly. Time for blood.
In the old days he might have roared a battle cry himself and charged his enemy from the front. That man was gone. Instead, he darted in soundlessly and came at Ser Bero from the flank. The massive man held his great ax high, ready to shatter his opponent’s blade once and for all. Gripping his family blade with both hands, Tiron leaped up with a grunt and brought it whistling down on the ax’s haft. He sheared clear through it, the massive moon blades falling to the dirt behind Bero as the great man staggered and nearly fell, unbalanced.
“Idiot. Who brings a wooden weapon to man’s fight?” Tiron moved in before Bero could regain his balance, planted his foot square on Bero’s hip and shoved. The massive knight roared in anger and toppled over onto his side with a resounding crash. “There,” said Tiron to the stunned knight who was still kneeling on the ground, notched sword held before him. “Even you should be able to handle him now.”
A rushing sensation, a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Tiron wheeled, swinging his sword around in time to ward off a blow that would have taken off his head. Ser Olbrecht had lost his helm, and his gray hair hung wild about his shoulders; his smile was chilling.
“Bad move, old man,” said Ser Tiron. He rushed Olbrecht, attacking with a series of brutal overhead chops. Olbrecht moved with surprising agility for his age, deflecting the blow with clever parries, giving ground before Tiron’s strength—a strength that quickly began to fade. Tiron grimaced within his helm. He’d still not recovered. Where before he might have hammered Olbrecht into the ground, now his lungs were already burning, his muscles screaming in protest.
; Tiron stepped back, gasping for breath, and Olbrecht grinned. “Tired already, Rusted Kettle? For shame. To think you’re going to lose to an old man.”
Tiron scowled. Olbrecht was good. Perhaps too good. In his prime he’d have bested any man here, but even now, in the twilight of his career, he was sufficiently skilled to outfight Tiron in his current state.
“To the Black Gate with you,” said Tiron, and hurled his sword at Olbrecht’s head.
The old man’s eyes widened in shock and he flinched to one side, Tiron’s blade crashing off his armored shoulder. He recovered quickly, but it was too late. Tiron slammed his gauntlet across Olbrecht’s jaw with everything he had, rose up onto one foot so that he could come down with all his weight, turning from his hips to bring his metal fist down onto the man’s face.
Olbrecht spun, blood and teeth spraying into the air, and crashed to the ground. Tiron fell after him, sinking down to one knee, and hissed through clenched teeth at the stitch that burned in his side and the way his vision was blurring. This wasted body. He snatched up his sword and stood, turning and quickly backpedaling away from any oncoming opponents.
There were none. The number of contestants had dropped sharply. Bero had somehow gained his feet; the young knight was lying face-down in the dirt. The twins were going toe-to-toe with the girl and the squire, and in the center Jander and Kitan were circling each other, blades raised, doing a slow sideways shuffle as each sought an opening.
One of the Laur knights was getting back up to his feet. Tiron walked over and slammed the pommel of his blade into the back of his head and the man fell to the dirt again.
Tiron’s breath was burning in his raw throat. Damn. He was as weak as a lamb. His whole body was shaking.
Jander and Kitan leaped at each other, blades ringing out.
“Hey!” Tiron began to run forward. “You! The idiot!”
Bero had been closing in on Ser Wyland’s flank, but he stopped and turned. He was holding the fallen knight’s sword in one massive fist, making it look like a child’s blade. A deep, bestial growl sounded from within his antlered helm. “Kettle Knight.”
