by Damien Black
Adelko’s feelings upon hearing that were mixed, but not entirely unexpected. His sixth sense told him that much was in the offing. But beyond that he felt something else lay ahead… and he doubted it was a good thing.
‘Your year with me is drawing to a close,’ continued Horskram, staring out of the window. His mind was clearly elsewhere; probably he sensed the same as Adelko. ‘You’ve seen far more than I ever intended. The time is coming when you must take what you have learned and channel it into the rest of your training.’
‘Will I be assigned a place at Rima?’ the novice asked. At least the prospect of studying at the Order’s headquarters took the sting out of concluding his adventures.
‘Aye, more than likely,’ conceded Horskram. ‘If you behave! No, you have earned that much at least.’
His mentor was looking at him now. It was the same steely blue look he had given him years ago in Narvik. Adelko was surprised to feel a tingle running down his spine.
‘Am I… special in some way, Master Horskram?’ He was even more surprised at his own question. It smacked of temerity, though he instinctively felt it was the right one to ask.
‘Only time will tell,’ was all his mentor would say on the matter. ‘For now, content yourself with knowing that I deem the Grand High Monastery to be the best place to continue your tutelage.’
Horskram fell to brooding silence. That made Adelko feel only more anxious, so he pressed him for more conversation.
‘It’s not going to end well tomorrow is it? Between Braxus and Torgun I mean.’ As if to confirm the notion, his sixth sense flared momentarily.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Horskram. ‘But our mission to find Andragorix is done and our brave knights must needs return to their countries. Once this ridiculous business over the heiress of Dulsinor is brought to whatever bloody conclusion the Almighty wills. They both have enough problems to contend with back home, Reus knows.’
‘Won’t we need their protection? For the journey to Rima?’
Horskram shook his head. ‘The Eorl has agreed to provide us with an armed escort as far as the borders of Westenlund after the tourney is finished. We’ll take ship from the port of Westerburg to Rima. Braxus will accompany us as far as the free city, from where he’ll be able to sail back to Thraxia. Torgun’s route home is simplest if he retraces his steps. Of course that’s assuming they’re both in one piece after tomorrow’s foolishness.’
‘Braxus fights well, but I don’t think he has much chance against a knight like Sir Torgun,’ said Adelko.
‘I think you’re right,’ sighed Horskram. ‘And I wouldn’t put it past Sir Torgun to detour on his way home to seek a fool’s revenge on the Earth Witch for the Chequered Twins.’
Adelko felt his sixth sense flare again: he had been thinking much the same.
‘I have this horrible feeling,’ he said. ‘Last night I saw Azrael in my dreams.’
He was half expecting his mentor to rebuke him for drinking too much wine. Instead he just stared at him.
‘The Angel of Death watches all of us,’ he said.
Adhelina watched with a tight feeling in her chest as the knights filed back into the stalls next to the lists. The noon skies were overcast. She shifted uncomfortably in the cloying heat, the stench of bodies packed in the bleachers clogging her nostrils. Next to her Hettie sat and fidgeted. At least she seemed a bit more receptive to her surroundings; little by little, she had to hope, her friend was recovering.
To the other side sat her father, a cup of wine in one hand, the Duellers’ Baton in the other. The knights took weapons from their squires as minstrels belted out a martial tune. There had been several challenges registered ahead of the duelling event. Sir Urist had thoughtfully left Torgun and Braxus last on the itinerary. High drama for the gaggle of townsfolk and peasants who had gathered to watch. More agony for her.
Once again the herald took to the podium, looking flushed as ever with drink. ‘Ladies, noblemen and the rest of you ne’er do wells!’ he cried. ‘And today brings us to the duelling! Personal contests – for honour, for chivalry, for justice! Witness skill at arms on foot as brave knights fight hand to hand, some for love and some for blood! I hope you’re ready for a spectacle…’
On and on the herald went, making a meal of it. Adhelina felt her guts twist. This was just the sort of thing Gracius and Guillarme had made their name recounting: knights fighting for love. Except this wasn’t about love any more, if it ever had been. Adhelina wasn’t the root cause of their animosity, but she was the catalyst: their rivalrous feelings had proved the breaking point between them, and now two knights who had fought side by side to save her would seek to kill each other in her name.
The herald called out the names of the first two combatants. Two of her father’s vassals settling a land dispute, they had agreed to fight with swords to first blood. A couple of minutes saw the matter resolved: one knight was sent packing to the Marionite tent with blood streaming down his face, and several acres the poorer.
Adhelina glanced about the bleachers as the crowd called out in eager anticipation of the next bout. Her future husband was nowhere to be seen; he had been unusually temperate at the feast last night, drinking only a few stoops before sloping off with Reghar and Hangrit. His steward Albercelsus was also absent, along with the Herzog’s sisters.
‘Did the Lanraks decide not to grace us with their presence this afternoon?’ she asked her father, without turning to look at him. ‘I would have thought my betrothed would be interested to see how his rivals would fare.’
‘His Grace is doubtless plotting tactics ahead of the melee,’ replied her father, unsmiling. ‘I think he hopes to win renown in your eyes after his dismal efforts in the joust.’
Adhelina snorted to show what she thought of that notion.
‘Your other swain Agravine will also be making preparations for similar reasons, I trow. It’ll be his last chance to distinguish himself in your eyes, and the last time he fights under the Markward banner.’
‘Banishing him is a churlish thing to do – he is well within the Laws of Romance, as you know,’ said Adhelina bitterly.
‘He is in breach of loyalty to his liege is what he is,’ snapped her father. ‘He’s lucky I’ve decided to keep him on till the end of the tournament. Perhaps I’ll assign him to Horskram’s honour guard – he can see that damned Thraxian off too.’
‘I doubt Sir Braxus will be in fit condition to move after today,’ put in Sir Urist. ‘He is a valiant knight, but Sir Torgun is clearly the better fighter.’
‘The better fighter who lost their joust,’ Adhelina reminded him.
‘A chance affair my lady,’ said Urist. ‘I doubt unorthodox tactics will avail him much in a sword bout.’
Adhelina frowned, lapsing into moody silence as her father waved the baton and got the next duel under way. She liked both her paramours for different reasons, and the thought of them hurting one another brought her little pleasure.
The next two duellists began circling each other. This was a fight in earnest, between a lordless tourney knight from Upper Thulia who had accused another errant from Pangonia of cheating at dice. The two rashed together for a while before the Pangonian caught the Vorstlending a bone-crunching mace blow to the knee just below his hauberk. The knight slumped to the ground screaming as his kneecap exploded in a shower of red and white. Adhelina winced as the Pangonian discarded his mace, pulling a poignard from his belt and driving it into his foe’s neck under his aventail as he writhed in the dirt.
The next couple of bouts were for love, younger knights from the Lanrak and Markward hosts eager to prove their worth and mettle. One ended with a knight being disarmed and the second was called quits by mutual assent after both parties were too exhausted to fight on any further.
‘And next, Sir Wrackwulf of Bringenheim challenges Sir Carlus of Bezantia!’
Braxus and Vaskrian shouted encouragement as Wrackwulf strode into the lists, clutching an axe in one
hand and a spiked mace in the other. His Thalamian antagonist squared off against him, his scarred face glowering beneath his bascinet.
‘Sir Carlus, you have accused Sir Wrackwulf of being incapable of holding a tune while under the influence of strong wine!’ declaimed the herald. ‘Sir Wrackwulf contests that his baritone is passing fair, to which you gave him the lie. As you have called him a liar you have slurred his honour, for which he would fain have satisfaction! Sir Carlus, do you recant your accusation?’
‘I do not,’ growled Carlus. ‘Yon knight can scarce sing better than a castrated wolf. Therefore I say he lieth!’
‘Very well, honour will be decided by the sword!’ cried the herald above the ripple of laughter. ‘By your leave, my lord!’
Wilhelm brought down the baton, and the knights launched themselves at one another.
Sir Carlus was a wiry man who moved like a snake, his sword darting and weaving as he probed at Wrackwulf’s guard. But the burly knight moved surprisingly well for his girth, always keeping his torso out of reach while riposting sporadically. For a few minutes they continued like that, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they took turns to circle around each other.
Presently both knights disengaged, breaking off for a draft of ale to refresh themselves. The herald looked again to Wilhelm, who brought the rod down once more.
That was the moment Wrackwulf chose to take things up a notch.
Carlus fell back before the sudden onslaught, struggling to fend off alternate blows as Wrackwulf struck at him with axe and mace, his arms lethal cartwheels of steel. The Thalamian brought his heater up to parry another thunderous axe blow: this one caught it dead centre, right in the nombril point, splitting it in two. Wrackwulf swung his mace in a follow-up strike; the Thalamian brought up his sword to fend off the expected blow to the head.
But Wrackwulf wasn’t aiming for his head.
His second blow smashed past the cloven pieces of Carlus’ damaged heater. Adhelina supposed his gauntlet saved him from losing a hand, but the yell that exploded from the knight’s lips was instructive as he staggered back in the churning soil, his shield arm hanging limply.
The Thalamian tried a desperate counter-swipe with his sword, but Wrackwulf circled agilely around him and renewed the attack. The injured knight struggled to keep up, but with one weapon against two it was only a matter of time before Wrackwulf found his way past his guard: the Thalamian screamed as the Vorstlending buried his axe in his face. Wrenching the blade free he watched calmly as Carlus fell back in a swoon, a deep cut across his nosebone crowning a torrent of blood.
‘Honour has been satisfied!’ declaimed the herald, as a pair of lay brothers rushed on to the field carrying a stretcher. ‘Sir Wrackwulf of Bringenheim’s baritone is as fine a voice as any in the Free Kingdoms!’
Wrackwulf raised both his weapons in a salute, turning to face the bleachers and grinning a snaggle-toothed grin. She could only applaud with the others. The southlander was certainly quite the showman.
The herald soon dampened her high spirits.
‘And finally, Sir Torgun of Vandheim challenges Sir Braxus of Gaellen!’
The crowd erupted as Adhelina reached for her goblet. Hettie glanced nervously at her. At least the spectacle was bringing her friend back into the world of the living.
‘Sir Torgun craves the opportunity to buy back his steed from his vanquisher,’ said the herald, pressing on with the formalities. ‘The which Sir Braxus has denied him. The Northlending knight considers this a slur upon his honour, for which he will have satisfaction! Sir Braxus, wilt thou relent and return Sir Torgun’s steed to him for due recompense?’
Silence descended on the crowd as the Thraxian did not reply. As if on cue the clouds overhead rumbled, brooding giants giving birth to a summer squall.
After what seemed an age, Sir Braxus spoke.
‘The Northlending is welcome to have his horse back… if he bests me in combat.’
The resulting cheer drowned out the sound of incipient rain. Adhelina drained her goblet and exchanged a fraught look with Hettie. The commoners were going to get what they had come for.
The herald looked to her father and once more Wilhelm let fall the baton.
Both knights were armed with sword and shield and dressed in hauberks, though neither had bothered with great helm, bascinet or coif. This would be as much a battle of wits and reaction as strength or sword skill – peripheral vision was paramount. Though the signal had been given, neither one moved, each daring the other to set the bout in motion.
Reaching across Adhelina found Hettie’s hand and grasped it. Her friend’s fingers felt reassuringly warm in her own.
Down in the stalls Adelko tensed as he watched the knights square off against one another. His sixth sense was jangling. But what could he do? This was mortal combat betwixt mortal men; an Argolian had little place here. He glanced at his mentor as he pulled up his cowl against the rain. Horskram sipped from his winecup, his face set grim.
The crowd let out a roar as Torgun launched himself at Braxus, breaking the stillness. The novice caught a familiar hooded figure, standing still in the midst of the raging mob. He had no time to ponder that as the clash of steel on steel cut across the pattering of rain: Sir Torgun’s onslaught drove Sir Braxus to the edge of the lists before the Thraxian got in his first riposte.
The novice watched heart in mouth as Sir Braxus countered. He moved faster than Adelko had ever seen him move, his sword a grey blur as he jabbed and hacked at Torgun’s guard: up, down, left and right. Three times they rashed shields together; the third time Braxus got the worst of it, staggering backwards before Torgun’s superior strength. The Northlending gave him no respite, renewing the offensive with a speed and strength that could only be described as astonishing.
Adelko had hoped that the two would be more evenly matched: maybe with the rain they might wear each other down, and call a draw just like the younger knights had done. But after a few minutes it was already apparent who had the upper hand. Braxus moved as fast as any knight Adelko had seen, and was gifted with a dextrous hand and quick mind. The problem was, Torgun moved just as quickly, fought at least as well and had twice the strength of the lithe Thraxian. It was only a matter of time before he overwhelmed him.
Round the lists they went, the rain hardening as the baying of the crowd reached an ugly pitch. Again and again Torgun barged and slashed, hewing chips off Braxus’ shield as the Thraxian struggled to riposte. These became less frequent as he began to tire, the mud pulling at his boots and his hauberk looking heavier by the second. Torgun seemed to have an endless store of energy; not once did the settled expression on his face change, while Braxus gasped for dear life, sweat mingling with rain as it soaked his hair.
As a last gambit the Thraxian tried a feint, pulling up his sword from Torgun’s lower torso in a disengage thrust targeting his armpit. It was a lightning stroke and a clever move… but the Northlending effortlessly anticipated, reversing his own blade so it caught Braxus’ sword in the hilt of his own.
With a graceful twist of his huge forearm, Sir Torgun wrenched the blade from Sir Braxus’ grasp, sending it flying into the mud. With a roar Braxus tried an overhead shield barge, but Torgun knocked it aside with an outwards swipe of his own kite. The knights were too close together for a sword strike, so Torgun stepped in and slammed his sword pommel into Braxus’s forehead. The Thraxian sank to his knees with a moan, blood streaming down his face as he slumped backwards to lie prone in the bubbling soil. Torgun towered over him, his face still calm as he placed a foot on the Thraxian’s chest and levelled the point of his blade down towards his throat.
‘And the Thraxian has been outfought, outwitted and outfooted!’ cried the herald above the screaming crowd and driving rain. ‘Now, will he spare his opponent, or send him packing to the halls of Azrael?’
Adelko felt his sixth sense spike as the herald mentioned the Angel of Death. It seemed to him then that Torgun had taken o
n the shape of the Lord of Azhoanarn, looming over his fallen foe with great black wings that blocked out the light. He’d seen those wings before…
The Thraxian tensed, waiting for the death stroke. Adelko knew from what Vaskrian had told him that his life was forfeit. He had lost a duel of honour fought in earnest; according to the Code, Torgun could kill him with impunity. Glancing at the squire he saw the anguish in his friend’s face. Horskram stood rigid, a look of profound distaste etched across his aquiline features.
Torgun stood like that for several long moments, his boot resting on Braxus’ heaving chest, his sword tip tickling his unarmoured throat. His face remained impassive, though his eyes seemed to burn with an unquenchable fire.
The Northlending pulled up his sword. Stepping off the Thraxian, he sheathed it.
‘Honour has been satisfied,’ he said. ‘I reclaim my horse in lieu of ransom money. All debts between us are discharged.’ Without another word the knight turned and walked towards where Hilmir stood, whickering and stamping in the stalls.
Adelko’s sixth sense flared. Turning he saw Braxus hauling himself upright, discarding his shield as he pulled a dirk from his boot. His features were contorted with rage.
‘Vaskrian, stop him!’ he cried.
The squire was over the fence and into the lists in the blinking of an eye. Dashing through the mud he interposed himself between the knights, holding his hands aloft.
‘Don’t do it, Sir Braxus!’ he begged.
‘Get out my way, you churl!’ roared the knight.
‘I can’t let you do it, guvnor, I’m sorry,’ faltered the squire. ‘He bested you in a fair fight.’
By then the element of surprise was lost in any case. Torgun had turned around, alerted by the renewed jeering of the crowd. Seeing Braxus clutching the dagger and raging at his squire, he sneered and shook his head. Without a backwards glance he exited the lists and went to tend his horse.
