It occurred to him that Brynn Dharielle would be virtually unbeatable at this type of combat.
A trumpet blare signaled the beginning; Aydrian tightened his legs on Symphony’s flanks and spurred the horse on a thunderous charge down the course.
On came his opponent, the man ducking behind his large shield, his lance unsteady in his hand.
Aydrian purposely angled himself so that his lance would hit the other man’s shield and the man’s lance would similarly slam his. He wanted to feel that unknown and obviously mighty impact, right now, early on, in preparation for the more formidable opponents he knew he would soon enough face.
The impact was indeed stunning. Both lances shattered, as jousting lances were designed to do, and it was only after Symphony had taken several more running strides that Aydrian realized that he had won, that the tremendous crash had sent his opponent spinning backward over his horse’s rump.
By the time he had pulled up at the far end of the course, the people were cheering, “Tai’maqwilloq! Tai’maqwilloq!” with abandon.
Aydrian looked back at his fallen opponent, the man flat on the ground, squires running to him.
So that was the truth of it, he realized. The initial passes of the joust, the three runs where replacement lances would be allowed, was a contest more of sheer strength and solidity in the saddle than any measure of battle maneuverability, though aim would become more important, he figured, when he started riding against the more-seasoned and better-armored opponents. Take that brutal hit and hold your seat, and victory would be there to claim.
The young warrior smiled, not only because of the rousing cheers for him but also because in that one pass he had learned much about the joust. In that one hit, he had learned that it would take much more than that to push him from his horse.
He had his second run about an hour later; and again, a single pass had the crowd cheering for Tai’maqwilloq and had his opponent lying in the dirt. His third opponent, an armored nobleman, took him two passes to unseat, the first to dull the man’s shield arm with a stunning blow, the second to put his lance above the man’s shield, catching him just below the shoulder. His second lance didn’t break, to Aydrian’s delight and to his opponent’s agony, for he lifted the man right out of his saddle, and he seemed to hang in midair for a long time before crashing down to the dirt.
Stubbornly, the nobleman climbed to his feet and drew out his huge sword, and the crowd cheered for Tai’maqwilloq to finish the job.
Aydrian looked to the squire handing him the third lance. “Ye get one more,” the toothless squire remarked with a huge grin.
“So does he,” Aydrian reminded.
“Aye, but he’s got no horse now, does he?”
Aydrian laughed and took the lance. “Need I stay on my side of the rail?” he asked.
The squire looked at him incredulously, and Aydrian certainly understood the man’s puzzlement. How could one as strong as Aydrian not even know the rules of the joust?
“The field’s open to ye,” the squire responded. “Just run that one down and move along. Take care, though, for he’s on the ground now, and that makes yer horse an open target.”
Aydrian turned back to the field and the waiting nobleman. The man stood shakily, one shoulder drooping. The young warrior thought that he should dismount and fight him on foot, but he quickly changed his mind, not wanting to show all his skills to his future opponents just yet.
“He will never get near my horse,” Aydrian replied to the squire and he drove his heels into Symphony, the great stallion leaping away.
The nobleman tried to dodge, but Aydrian was too quick for that. A shift of angle brought the lance squarely into the man’s chest and launched him through the air and onto his back.
Aydrian turned at the end of the run, watching as the stubborn man tried to rise again. The stubborn fool almost managed it, but then simply fell over sideways into the dust, where he lay coughing blood.
The attendants dragged him from the field; the crowd roared for Tai’maqwilloq.
Aydrian moved to the side of the field then, to his personal squires, a disguised Sadye among them.
“Your next opponent will be an Allheart knight,” she explained, “the leader of your group.”
Aydrian smiled.
The Allheart knight went down and stayed down on the first pass, as Aydrian angled his shield perfectly at the very last second to send the knight’s lance skipping high and wide and retracted his own lance, allowing his opponent to overbalance, then thrusting his lance hard, above the lurching man’s dipping shield. It was the greatest impact Aydrian had felt that day, as his lance smashed into the knight’s armored breast, and it nearly unseated Aydrian as well.
In truth, the young warrior thought he might fall, and might lose the pass, for when he glanced back, he saw the Allheart still astride his running horse.
But the fight was surely over, for the man was nearly unconscious. His well-trained horse kept running, but the man slid off the side, crashed against the rail, and fell under it to the ground.
The crowd roared to new heights, and there was a change in timbre to that cheering, Aydrian recognized and understood. Before, they were cheering for the impossible, for an unknown warrior. Now they were cheering for a man who had just clobbered an Allheart knight, a man who seemed destined to challenge Duke Targon Bree Kalas.
They held the lottery for the final four competitors soon after; and, as De’Unnero had predicted, Aydrian would be pitted not against Duke Kalas but against another Allheart knight, the largest of the competitors by far and a man who had won his group with ease.
By draw, Duke Kalas and his opponent went onto the field first.
Aydrian took Symphony to the side of the field, to Sadye and his attendants.
“Watch the Duke’s style,” Sadye remarked.
Aydrian laughed and walked away, hardly caring. When he was out of sight, he flexed his right wrist repeatedly, for the violence of that last hit had wounded the joint more than he had realized. Aydrian reached his thoughts to the hematite set into his armor and emerged back onto the field with hardly an ache soon after Kalas’ easy victory.
“Two passes,” Sadye remarked as an attendant helped Aydrian back into the saddle. “Though the first should have unseated the Duke’s opponent. He was good.”
“And glad I am to hear that,” Aydrian replied. “It would be a pity to go through such a day of triumph without a single challenge!”
His confidence brought a chuckle to Sadye. True to his own prediction, Aydrian trotted out to the field and defeated his second Allheart of the day, unseating him in the first pass and running him down with ease.
That left only two.
“Present yourself to the King,” the squire near one of the lance racks explained to Aydrian. When he turned, he saw that Duke Kalas had come back onto the field, trotting his powerful To-gai pony toward the King’s pavilion.
Aydrian joined him there, but as he had done with the Talon, he did not look at Kalas at all, just at the King and Queen.
Danube rose then and launched into a great speech about the glories of the day, of the hard-won victories and bitter defeats. He congratulated all who had competed but then pronounced that these two among the rest had proven themselves the strongest.
King Danube looked down at Duke Kalas first. “For whom do you ride, champion Duke Kalas?” he asked.
“I am Allheart!” Kalas pronounced in a loud and resonant voice. “I ride for King Danube! My King, my country, my life!”
The crowd roared.
“And for whom do you ride, champion Tai’maqwilloq?” Danube asked, and the crowd went wild at the mention of his name.
When they quieted, Danube unexpectedly continued. “You said that you came to prove yourself worthy. I expect that you have done just that!”
The crowd erupted again, this time into a combination of cheering and laughter.
Aydrian waited for it to subside. “Whe
n I find one a worthy challenge, I will name myself as worthy,” Aydrian remarked, and the crowd howled at such a brash statement. “That has not happened yet.”
Aydrian felt Kalas’ eyes boring into him and heard the Duke issue a low growl.
“I ride not for you, King Danube!” Aydrian announced suddenly in a tremendous voice. Danube’s eyes popped open wide, the crowd gasped, and Duke Kalas growled again. Not only was such a declaration amazing on this, the King’s birthday celebration but Aydrian’s referral to “King Danube” instead of to “my King” was no small matter of improper etiquette.
“I ride for Queen Jilseponie alone!” Aydrian pronounced, and again came the gasps and the growl from Kalas; and several of the nobles seated in the royal pavilion crinkled their faces in disgust.
But King Danube did not seem so upset. Indeed, he howled a great bellow of laughter. “But a fine night I’ll find with my wife if my champion fells hers!” he roared, and the crowd exploded into laughter again. “And a worse night of gloating, I fear, should her young upstart defeat my Duke!”
And then they were all laughing, except Duke Kalas, his lips thin with rage; except Queen Jilseponie, who sat there in blank amazement; except the other nobles, whose eyes shot daggers Aydrian’s way; and except Marcalo De’Unnero, who stood in the crowd nodding admiringly at the way his young friend had played out the drama, pushing hard but not too far.
A subtle nod as he was placing his great plumed helm atop his head was all that Duke Kalas needed to do to get his point across to the squire attending his weapon rack and to the one across the way, who would be handing a lance to Tai’maqwilloq.
To this point, Kalas had battled fairly—except for the inescapable reality in the general melee that afforded him the honor of rank and reputation—and had he been fighting anyone else in this final match, he would have gladly continued doing so, confident that he would emerge victorious.
He remained confident now, even before he had thought to give the telling nod, but, in light of Bruce of Oredale’s previous words and the declaration of the young upstart warrior, Duke Kalas also understood the dire implications here should Tai’maqwilloq somehow defeat him.
For the sake of his friend the King, he could take no chances.
That’s what he told himself, anyway, the self-justification he needed to take the lance from his attendant. It was heavier than any of the others on the rack, and with the exception of its somewhat dulled point, was, in fact, an actual weapon of war and not a lance for jousting. Kalas settled it easily beside his magnificent shield, emblazoned with his family crest: the pine tree of St. Abelle with a dragon rampant on either side, their flaming breaths joining above the tree.
The mere sight of the Duke attired so magnificently, a seemingly unbeatable foe, the epitome of knighthood, often stole the strength from his opponents, and Kalas’ chest swelled when he heard the appreciative cheers of the peasants.
In the royal pavilion, sitting very straight backed and outwardly composed, Jilseponie watched the young champion, this greatly skilled warrior, deeply intrigued and with more than a little trepidation. His name was elven, clearly, as was that sword he had presented. And she could see in his graceful movements that he was a ranger.
He had to be. There could be no other explanation. But why, then, was he here, entered in a tournament that had nothing to do with the Touel’alfar? A knightly joust that had nothing at all to do with the calling of a ranger? Would Elbryan have entered a tournament?
No. Even had he heard of such a challenge, her husband would have had no reason to attend, and, indeed, his responsibilities to the reclusive folk who had trained him would have kept him far away.
To her thinking, Tai’maqwilloq’s presence here simply made no sense—unless it was somehow connected to her. He had proclaimed himself her champion, yet another clue that he was tied to Dasslerond’s people. But why? What message was the lady of Caer’alfar trying to send to her?
One other thing gnawed at the Queen’s curiosity: the horse. She couldn’t see much of the stallion’s features, for its chest and head were covered by decorative cloth and armor, but that stride! So long and powerful, the hind legs tucking way in under its belly, then exploding back with tremendous power. Pony knew that stride, had seen it in only one horse in all her life, one great horse who had taken Elbryan and Pony to the end of the world and back.
If Tai’maqwilloq’s horse was not Symphony, then it was as akin to Symphony as any horse could be! Pony considered the span of years. Even if Symphony had been a young colt when first Elbryan had found him, which she did not believe, then the horse would now be old, very old, in his twenties at least and likely into his thirties. Could a horse that old, and with so many difficult trails and trials behind him, still run like the steed of Tai’maqwilloq, with legs fluid and strong?
Perhaps it was Symphony’s offspring.
Pony reached into her pocket and put her hand around a soul stone. As she had done several times before during the joust, she reached out through the gemstone, seeking that magical connection she had known with Symphony.
But if this was Symphony, if there was indeed a magical turquoise embedded in this horse’s muscular chest—a gem planted by Avelyn as a gift to Elbryan as a means through which he, and then Pony, could communicate with the intelligent horse—then she could not sense it.
The combatants had their weapons in hand then and were moving into position at opposite ends of the course, and the trumpeters put their horns to their lips.
Pony chewed her lower lip nervously.
Brimming with confidence, Aydrian lowered his lance and drove in his heels, and Symphony leaped away. On the other side of the rail, Duke Kalas kicked his To-gai pony into a similar gallop.
Aydrian could see the pinto’s muscles working and knew that he would not hold too great an advantage, horse to pony, in this match. Superbly trained, intelligent, and pound for pound stronger than a draft horse, the To-gai ponies had earned their reputation as being among the finest mounts in the world. They were not small creatures—indeed many were not even true ponies, being taller than the fourteen-and-a-half hand defining height—and even the smallest of the Allheart mounts weighed a solid seven hundred pounds.
The riders neared and Aydrian focused on his opponent. Kalas was going straight for his shield, which seemed to be the custom for first pass, and so Aydrian did likewise, more than willing to trade crushing, punishing blows with the older Duke.
Besides, Aydrian didn’t want to end the fight too quickly—he knew that he was obligated to please the crowd.
Aydrian’s tip connected first, and he grinned beneath his helm—or started to, until his weakened lance shattered into several pieces before making any truly solid connection.
On the other hand, Kalas’ hit proved stunning, as strong an impact as young Aydrian had yet known, driving his shield arm back into his side with tremendous force.
And the Duke’s lance did not break!
Kalas drove on, the sturdy lance wrenching Aydrian’s arm up awkwardly—the young warrior heard his shoulder pop out of its joint. Then the lance slipped off the end of the twisting shield and smashed hard against the top of Aydrian’s breast.
The horses thundered by and Aydrian felt as if the world was spinning. He growled away the pain and the shock and stubbornly held his seat.
Or tried to, for in that moment of semiconsciousness, the young warrior’s magical hold on Symphony was no more, and Jilseponie’s call got through.
Symphony threw a great buck, and Aydrian went flying away, head over heels.
He landed facedown, his wounded arm beneath him. He heard the crowd cheering, cheering, and for a moment, felt giddy at the rousing sound.
But then he realized that they weren’t cheering for him.
Aydrian lifted his head and planted his right hand in the torn turf, then drove himself up onto his elbow. He looked around and had to wait a long moment before the dizziness began to subside.
Aydrian spun, to see Kalas with another lance in hand. Stubbornly, the young man tore his broken and battered shield free of his left arm, then drew out his sword, presenting it in challenge to the mounted Duke.
“As you wish,” Duke Kalas mumbled, seeming more than pleased. He kicked his heels into the To-gai pony, lowering his lance as he charged.
Aydrian waited, waited, measuring the speed, turning his legs for the dodge he needed to make.
The lance rushed in at him. He started right, further aside, and Kalas, obviously anticipating what seemed like the only move, angled the lance appropriately.
But Aydrian pivoted back immediately, quickly stepping before the charging pony. He got bumped and would have gone down and been trampled, except that he kept his wits enough to toss Tempest aside as he rolled before the pony, then grabbed the beast’s right rein, balling his fist and pushing off the muscled neck as he came around, somehow avoiding the thumping hooves. In the same movement, and with muscles honed by his many years under the harsh instruction of the Touel’alfar, Aydrian turned alongside the passing horse and leaped.
He caught hold of the saddle first, then snapped his arm up around Duke Kalas. In an instant he was up behind the Duke on the pony, his right arm under Kalas’ armpit.
Aydrian tugged back with frightening strength, and the Duke went with him, yanking the bit so forcefully that the To-gai pony reared and neighed in protest.
Over and free of the horse went Aydrian, clutching the Duke, who landed under him on the muddy field.
As he caught his breath, Aydrian scrambled away on all fours—or all threes, since he kept his throbbing left arm tight against his chest—to retrieve Tempest.
He rose and turned, to see Kalas standing.
“Foul! Foul, I say!” the Duke yelled, lifting his helm and pointing Aydrian’s way. “He struck my mount!”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 109
