Sir Rowan and the Camerian Conquest

by Chuck Black

  He held his final position, and chills flowed from the sword through his arms and up and down his entire body. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feel of the weapon in his hands. He relaxed, stood straight, and handed back the sword hilt first, the blade supported by his left hand, just as he’d seen the tournament chancellor do many times.

  Sir Aldwyn took the sword and held it just a moment longer as Rowan soaked it up with his gaze, then placed it back in the scabbard. Rowan retrieved the coin from his pocket and held it out to Sir Aldwyn. The knight reached for it but instead closed Rowan’s fingers around the coin.

  “You have good form for such a young lad,” Aldwyn said with a gaze that seemed to penetrate into Rowan’s heart. “Come to the haven of the Prince, and I shall teach you.”

  He picked up Algonquin’s reins, wheeled the horse around, and mounted. Rowan stood motionless, staring after him until he disappeared around the corner. Then he sprang to life and sprinted back into the stable to gather his meager belongings.

  That was the day that changed Rowan’s life forever. Sir Aldwyn mentored Rowan for the next four years, teaching him the ways of the Prince, the Code, and the sword. Rowan thrived under the training—fully embracing the truth of the Prince and the Code, at least at first. Truth be told, his interest in Sir Aldwyn’s stories eventually waned, but he reveled in the swordsmanship. With proper food and exercise, his body grew into that which it was intended to be—a powerfully muscled physique. His strength was beyond that of normal men, even at the youthful age of seventeen, and he soon mastered and exceeded all that Sir Aldwyn taught him about the sword.

  On the day of Rowan’s commissioning, Sir Aldwyn presented him with a magnificent sword of the Prince and invited him to ride by his side on a mission for the Prince. But though Rowan was grateful for Sir Aldwyn’s kindness, the ventures of ordinary knights held no interest for him. He was determined to fight in the tournaments, to be one of the famous knights that stood before ten thousand cheering spectators.

  At age eighteen, and against Sir Aldwyn’s counsel, Rowan entered his first tournament and lost in the initial round. He had allowed the spectacle of the event to distract and hinder him. Afterward, the taunts and jeers of the small crowd so humiliated him that he wondered why he had even tried. As he walked through the arena gate, his embarrassment slowly transformed to determination. He glanced back into the arena as the next combatants entered under the cheers of many, and he vowed never to lose another fight—no matter the cost.

  From that day forward, Rowan threw himself into training with single-minded determination. He pushed his body and his mind, drilling long hours each day, sparring with any partner he could find. After six months of intense work, Rowan registered for a small tournament in Sanisco, a city not far from Laos.

  When the flag of commencement dropped, Rowan became so focused and determined that the sound of the crowd melted to silence and the stadium faded from sight. All he saw or heard was the knight before him and the sword the man held. An intensity akin to fury filled his veins, and after just a few strokes the duel was over. When he released the battle to victory, the sights and sounds of the arena flooded in upon him like the rushing waves of the sea. It was a glorious feeling, and Rowan reveled in it.

  By day’s end, Rowan was the champion of the Sanisco tournament. He received the gold medallion amidst the cheers of hundreds of spectators, and a new tournament hero was born. As Rowan stood on the platform, satisfaction settled deep in his soul, and yet he hungered for more.

  More crowds. More cheering. More glory and gold.

  That day was the making—and the eventual unmaking—of the mighty Sir Rowan.

  BREAD AND TOURNAMENTS

  Steely blue eyes glared from behind ringlets of sweat-soaked sandy hair. Rowan gripped his sword tightly as the fight paused just long enough for the two combatants to reset their positions and their minds. The riotous roar of the crowd, previously lost in the rush of battle, engulfed them once more in endless concussions of cheers and chants. The two men stepped slowly in a clockwise motion, anticipating their next engagement.

  This fight this day was everything for Rowan. After eighteen months of tournament victories, he had finally been allowed to compete at the grand Laos tournament. Sir Tarrington was the undisputed champion of Laos, the third largest city in Cameria. If by some miracle Rowan could defeat him, his ranking among tournament fighters would escalate. This would mean regional recognition by the Camerian Tournament Council.

  Cameria had elevated the tournament events to a kingdomwide competition that transcended the games of Thecia and rivaled the bloody events of the old days. After the five major cities of Cameria united and battled to bring an end to Sir Adophal’s reign of terror in the southern kingdom, an era of prosperity, power, and peace had dawned, and the people needed something new for which to cheer.

  They were cheering now, riotously, and the roar gave Rowan a surge of energy. He looked into Sir Tarrington’s eyes and saw surprise in them—the champion had not expected this level of competition from such a young man. Three judges watched just out of sword’s reach. Five nonfatal hits would end the fight, but so would one fatal hit. The tally was four to three in Tarrington’s favor.

  Rowan prepared as Tarrington exploded a powerful advance. Rowan held his ground, but not without apprehension. He knew he was stronger than Tarrington, but there was always the element of experience to contend with. This often was the reason for the defeat of a rising competitor. Rowan had nearly fallen to Sir Yalteran in the previous duel because of it. He was determined to overcome that disadvantage now.

  Tarrington’s sword flew faster than ever before, but Rowan caught every thrust and refused to give ground. Their dancing swords arced, cut, and sliced in an endless volley of mastery. Rowan slowly turned the advance of Tarrington into retreat as he gained control of the flow of the fight and increased its tempo. His sword flew with the fury of a vengeful adversary to find its mark. The frenzied crowd roared, sensing that Sir Tarrington’s near-decade reign as the champion of Laos was in jeopardy.

  Then Rowan saw his first real opportunity. A cut from the left had put Tarrington’s sword too far outside his torso and left him unbalanced. Rowan took advantage of the opening. He countered with a diagonal cut, then began a quick thrust that would be nearly impossible for Tarrington to parry. Midway through the thrust, however, he realized Tarrington’s left foot had shifted slightly back, a sign that the champion’s “mistake” had really been a ploy. Rowan pulled short on his thrust and recovered just in time to block Tarrington’s intended victory cut. This time Tarrington truly was out of position, for he had gambled that Rowan would fall for his trick.

  With one quick, powerful cut to Tarrington’s head, the fight was over. Tarrington fell to the ground. Rowan covered him and nearly followed with another cut, but all three judges held up their red flags, indicating the end of the fight. Tarrington’s helmet was dented, and he was dazed but uninjured.

  The arena exploded with cheers and applause—there was a new champion in Laos. It took Rowan a moment to fully comprehend what had just happened. He had defeated the legendary Sir Tarrington in the Laos arena. He had risen from city street urchin to tournament champion, and the people loved it!

  He reached down and offered Tarrington a hand up, and the veteran knight accepted. When he gained his feet, both men removed their helmets.

  Tarrington looked deep into Rowan’s eyes, almost with a look of relief.

  “This is yours now. Defend it well.” Tarrington grabbed Rowan’s arm and raised it into the air. The crowd doubled its cheering. Rowan looked to the seat where he had arranged for Sir Aldwyn to sit. His mentor was clapping too, but there was no smile on his lips.

  Rowan’s spirits sank, but only for an instant. He looked at the cheering crowd, and their roar of approval carried him on a buoyant wave of exhilaration. Surely this was what he was meant to do.

  It seemed as if he was born for it.

>   On the ceremony stand, Lord Gavaah himself presented the tournament sword, medal, money, and the coveted victory cloak to Rowan. The man’s very presence was an honor, for Lord Gavaah was the impetus behind the Camerian Tournament Council. It was he who provided the wealth and the savvy to organize the tournaments at Elttaes, Amion, Laos, and Berwick into the first regional league of structured tournaments. Lord Gavaah’s brilliant Bread and Tournaments strategy—offering free bread to anyone who attended the games—had brought nearly instant fame and success to what had been a loosely structured and unprofitable activity.

  Within two years, the council had taken tournament attendance to a near frenzied level of participation. Lord Gavaah’s return on his initial investment of fifty thousand loaves of bread and four opulent stadiums had made him wealthy beyond measure, and his influence in Cameria was widespread.

  Rowan didn’t really care who or how or why the tournaments had gained such popularity. He just loved them … every part of them. At first he had convinced himself that participating would be an effective way to proclaim the Prince, but somewhere along the way his call to be a Knight of the Prince had faded into the background and the tournaments themselves had become his priority. Now he basked in the glory that came with being a champion.

  As the opulent victory cloak fell upon his shoulders, cheers erupted from twenty thousand spectators, and Rowan felt like a king. The cloak was a symbol of a true champion, for only those knights who had prevailed in one of the five major city tournaments received one.

  Rowan hefted the beautiful sword with the Camerian Tournament Council emblem engraved in the pommel. It felt even better than the Knights of the Prince sword he had used to rise this far. The balance was perfect. This would be his new tournament sword … a sword to be envied by all.

  It was still early in the tournament season, and Rowan would have to defend his new title a dozen times, but his future looked bright. He would represent the great city of Laos at the Camerian Games in Kroywen in six months’ time, an honor only a few had ever won. Rowan had every intention of becoming champion of all Cameria.

  When the accolades faded, Lord Gavaah put an arm around Rowan’s shoulder and walked with him toward the edge of the platform. He was a handsome man whose shrewd eyes were softened by a hearty demeanor and a ready smile. He was known for his voice, a smooth baritone that could ring throughout a stadium or purr through a contract negotiation.

  “You have the makings of a great Camerian champion, son.” Lord Gavaah grinned broadly. His black mustache and beard glistened in the afternoon sun.

  “Thank you, Lord Gavaah. It was an honor to fight Sir Tarrington.”

  Gavaah clapped him on the back. “You did more than fight him, Sir Rowan. You beat him. And now you are in a position to become one of the greatest swordsmen in all of Arrethtrae.”

  Rowan beamed at the sound of that.

  “You and the CTC have much to gain if we are smart about how we proceed,” Lord Gavaah added. “That’s why I’d like to help you.”

  He gestured to a man just a few paces away. The man stepped forward and bowed. “Mr. Balenteen at your service.”

  “Mr. Balenteen is a CTC agent,” Gavaah said. “He will help you manage your affairs.”

  “Ah … what affairs?” Rowan asked as he looked at Lord Gavaah.

  Gavaah smiled. “Well, there’s your money, your time, and”—Gavaah raised a hand to gesture toward the edge of the platform—“your followers.”

  Rowan’s eyes opened wide as hundreds of people began to shout excitedly.

  “I’ve also arranged for a trainer to help keep you in shape for the next round of tournaments. Mr. Balenteen will arrange a meeting with Sir Hatfield tomorrow.”

  Lord Gavaah slapped Rowan on the back again. “Get ready to make your dreams come true, young knight.” He turned about, his purple cloak swirling in the wake behind him.

  THE VICTORY CLOAK

  Mr. Balenteen was an irritating little man with a balding head and a short black mustache, but Rowan quickly saw the genius in his methods and came to rely heavily upon him over the next few months. The victory over Sir Tarrington had catapulted Rowan from a no-name tournament knight to a Camerian hero. His new status brought not only a whole new level of wealth and popularity but a dizzying schedule of appearances and high-level meetings.

  Mr. Balenteen managed all of that, making sure that Rowan appeared where and when he was expected. He managed Rowan’s finances, helping him negotiate the complications of sudden fame, even making arrangements for Rowan to purchase and furnish a large estate on the east side of the city. He also kept his eye out for any chance to promote Rowan’s reputation—which is why Rowan now stood facing a long line of young men brandishing swords and shields.

  As he had occasionally done before, Mr. Balenteen was offering money to squires to skirmish against Rowan for training purposes. It was great publicity for Rowan, since many relished the opportunity to fight against someone so famous, even if their chances of winning were nil. Additionally, the sum that Mr. Balenteen offered was enough to entice some of the better fighters into the arena with Rowan, giving him at least a small challenge from time to time. Rowan’s trainer, Sir Hatfield, had never been fond of the idea and closely supervised each event.

  The sky was blue and the sun hot. After a dozen duels and a dozen victories, Rowan took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Sir Hatfield raised his hand. “That’s enough for today.” He walked toward Rowan. The trainer was a bulky red-headed fellow who knew the sword well and had studied all of the great fighters, both past and present. He also had the tournament experience that Rowan lacked.

  Groans of disappointment rose up from the fifteen men still waiting for their chance at the money and the fight.

  “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll give you another chance,” Balenteen said with a smile as he shooed the men toward the arena exit.

  Hatfield shot Balenteen a look of disgust, then motioned him over. “What are you doing, Balenteen?” Hatfield put his hands on his hips but continued before the smooth-talking agent could answer. “I’ve got some serious training yet to do with Rowan, and these little publicity antics of yours are getting in the way!”

  “It’s Rowan’s fame that pays our wages,” Balenteen shot back. “We both have jobs to do—”

  Rowan shook his head and turned away so his amusement wouldn’t show. Balenteen and Hatfield were each the best at their jobs, which is why they were always getting on each other’s nerves. At first Rowan had tried to smooth out their relationship, but eventually he had realized the futility of it. Now he just laughed and walked away. Besides, he was eager to clean up and relax after his long day at the arena.

  Rowan sheathed his sword and walked over to his knapsack, glancing once more toward Balenteen and Hatfield, who were deep in a heated discussion as they walked out through the arena gate. The tired knight flung his victory cloak about his shoulders and fastened the tie across his chest. Then he picked up his knapsack and turned to leave, but one of the training squires was facing him with helmet and visor in place and sword drawn.

  “We’re done today, bloke.” Rowan tried to walk past the squire, but the man sidestepped to cut him off. “Come back tomorrow,” Rowan said, perturbed by the man’s rude refusal.

  “I will fight you.” The squire swung his sword before him.

  Rowan could tell by the stance and inexperienced grip that the squire was only just beginning his training as a knight. This was one of those impertinent, ill-trained glory seekers Rowan hated to encounter.

  “Look, chap, my agent is gone and so is the money.” Rowan tried to step around the squire once more, but the sword did not drop, and he was intercepted again.

  Rowan clenched his jaw and tried to keep his anger from getting the best of him, but the long day had worn his patience thin. He dropped his knapsack, threw back one side of the cloak over his left shoulder, and drew his sword, intending to disarm
the insolent fool quickly so he could be on his way. He glared at the squire as he swung his sword in a flourish across the space between them. The squire shuffled nervously as he seemed to understand the foolishness of his actions.

  “Do you really want to do this?” Rowan’s voice conveyed his indignation.

  The squire hesitated, looking as if he might turn and run, but then he attacked with a volley of poorly executed cuts and slices. Rowan resisted the temptation to laugh as he easily thwarted each cut, playing with his opponent as a cat would a captured mouse.

  When the man’s initial attack ceased, Rowan planned to execute a cut-thrust-bind maneuver to disarm the inexperienced squire and quickly end the fight. The cut nearly blasted the sword from the squire’s hand, but somehow he held on to it. Then the thrust nearly found its mark in the man’s chest, and Rowan had to pull up short to keep from impaling the imbecile. But at the last moment, the squire was able to deflect Rowan’s sword to the right.

  Now Rowan was in the perfect position to end the fight. He executed a disarming bind, but the squire’s sword held, and in that small subtle moment of time Rowan felt something strange through the blade of his sword. He felt strength from the squire that had not been apparent earlier. Their blades locked motionlessly as Rowan peered into the darkened slit of the squire’s helmet.

  Rowan left the bind and reengaged. This time, the man’s sword seemed to fly faster and stronger than before. Rowan’s anger surged as he realized the man had played him. He increased the intensity of the duel, bringing powerful cuts and slices to the fight. Remarkably, the squire kept pace. He retreated some at first, but within just a few moments, he had adjusted and was matching Rowan’s advance with a powerful defense.