by Helen Lowe
“You know that story about Lord Hirluin can’t be true,” he had said, very quietly, while checking Audin’s armor after the bout. “Not when your family have worked toward the Ormondian peace for so long.”
Audin had looked down at Kalan, his mouth pinched. “My uncle could have some long-term strategy in mind.”
Kalan had snorted. “Very long-term if it involves Jhaine.” But he had bouts of his own after that, so there was no more time, then, for talk. They were in the final knockout rounds of both sword and joust now, which would continue throughout the day and determine who would proceed to the tourney proper. Jarna was still in the running to go forward in both the horse archery and the horsemanship trials, although the Lathayrans were proving as tough as she had expected in the archery.
“And horsemanship alone won’t get me a place in a lord’s household,” she said to Kalan, with a small worried frown. The Normarch knights had retired to a low hill behind the ducal stand, where three oak trees spread welcome shade.
Kalan was keeping his eye on the sun, aware that he had more sword bouts in the early afternoon, but now he forced himself to concentrate on Jarna. He wanted to reach out and smooth away that frown with his fingertips, but he knew they had to remain careful, even amongst the inner circle of their friends. For her sake, even more than for his. He smiled at her reassuringly instead. “You’ll be fine. And I’ll come and cheer for you once my sword bouts are done.”
Raher, who was sitting opposite them on a gnarled oak root, grinned at Jarna. “Of course you’ll be fine,” he said. “Even if you don’t make any finals we’re still going to ride as a company in the melee, and m’father says that you need knights who can do that well, rather than always charging down individual glory. Although,” he continued after a moment’s reflection, “I’m all for personal renown myself.”
Girvase made a rude sound and they all chuckled. As always over recent days, Audin’s grin faded first, replaced by a grim inward look. Kalan suspected that they all noticed, although no one said anything. He yawned to hide his sigh and stretched, knowing that he must not let himself stiffen up ahead of the afternoon contests. Girvase shaded his eyes, looking down the hill. “Here’s Ilaise,” he said.
It was Ilaise, Kalan saw, riding a tall cream mare and accompanied by two of the Bonamark pages. “She looks very fine,” Raher said, standing up, and Kalan had to agree. He could not have said why, precisely, except that her dress looked very fashionable and her hair was caught up in a gold-and-silver net. But she waved as soon as she saw them and her smile was still the Ilaise he knew. Only Audin was frowning still.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, going to stand at the mare’s head.
“Getting out of the palace,” Iliase replied. “Ghis can’t and Alli’s still tired after the journey south, coming so soon after being wounded. So I said I would find out how the tournament was going. Also, I have an invitation for you all.”
“A page could have brought that,” Audin said. “This is a rough place, Illy.”
She widened her eyes at him. “I know. I watched some of the bouts earlier. There was one knight—if he was a knight,” she added, sniffing. “Anyway, apparently he comes from some savage northern country and he looks savage, more like a bear than a man. He fought like a savage, too.” Her tone and expression grew reflective. “Like the kind of man who would maim an opponent deliberately.”
Kalan flicked a look at Girvase and knew they were both thinking of the Derai, Orth, from their encounter the other night. “Besides, I have these pages,” Ilaise continued, “and Lady Bonamark sent four guards as well. Once I saw you, I said they could wait and eat their lunch at the foot of the hill.”
She undoubtedly had a knife somewhere about her, too, Kalan thought, remembering The Leas. “She’ll be all right, Audin,” he said. “What’s the invitation, Illy?”
Ilaise smiled at him. “There’s to be a grand fireworks display this evening, to honor the Queen of Jhaine. Ghis would like you to watch the fireworks with us, from the gallery of the ducal wing, and Lady Bonamark said she thought that would be unexceptional. Un-ex-cep-tion-al,” Iliase repeated, with a wink that the pages behind her would not see.
“We’ll be there,” Audin said, and Girvase nodded.
Of course they would be, Kalan thought, amused. “But right now,” he said, “Gir and I should both be back at the sword ground.”
“I’m for the lists,” Raher said, but he was still grinning at Ilaise. “You can come and watch if you like.”
“You falling off?” she inquired, but she turned the cream mare and accompanied their clanking progress down the hill. The ducal palace, Kalan gathered from her remarks, was not the exciting place she had hoped it would be, despite the Midsummer festivities. “It’s as crowded as the tourney camp,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And because Lord Hirluin’s still not back from the Eastern March, Ghis’s troth-pledge might not be until after Midsummer.”
Kalan did not need Audin’s quick frown to tell him that would be unfortunate, since the most auspicious time for both marriage and formal betrothals was Midsummer itself. He pulled an inward face and wondered what was keeping the Duke’s heir. The deepening of Audin’s frown suggested that he was wondering the same thing—but right now the trumpets were braying the resumption of competition and they all needed to focus on the bouts ahead. Killing an opponent might automatically disqualify a contestant, but accidents happened anyway, and injuries that crippled or maimed were also far from uncommon. Kalan had no intention of attracting ill fortune through lack of concentration.
“Who’re you fighting?” Audin asked him, when he and Girvase had fully rearmed and they were all studying the board where the tourney marshals chalked in the competitors’ coats-of-arms. It had amused Kalan to adopt the House of Blood’s crimson, with a black horse head—all he dared use of Night’s insignia—when he first came to Normarch. The colors opposite his were blue and orange, with a badger holding an oak branch.
“That’s Vast,” said Girvase, who always knew such things, “from Wymark.” But he frowned at his own opponent’s device, which was a black unicorn superimposed over a lightning bolt, both on a white ground. “Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“Only from the black tents,” Kalan said, “the ones we saw the other night. I don’t know the device, though.”
Audin shook his head. “Or this sheaf of swords either,” he said, studying the arms shown opposite his. “But we had better get to our places. You’re both second round, and I’m fourth up.” Bouts, as they all knew, rarely lasted long, even with opponents who knew each other’s skill and were equally matched.
Girvase was right, and Kalan’s opponent was Ser Alric of Vast, a tall, broad-shouldered man with receding hair and a discolored front tooth. An exponent of the swing-and-hew style of swordsmanship, Kalan thought, dodging the initial sweep of the Wymark knight’s broadsword, which if it had connected would have cut him in two. But he was quicker on his feet than the taller knight, and despite one rough buffet when his dodge was not quite quick enough, was able to deflect the initial whirlwind assault and counterattack. Superior skill told, as well as speed, and once on the back foot Ser Alric had no answer to Kalan’s attack. Within a few minutes it was all over, Kalan’s boot resting on the blade of Ser Alric’s sword and the tip of his own weapon at the disarmed knight’s throat.
“You’re good,” the Wymarker said, as they shook hands under the bout marshal’s eye. He accepted his sword back, his grin rueful. “Strong, as well, when I thought I at least had that advantage.”
Kalan grinned, too, since Ser Alric seemed disposed to take his defeat in good part, but he was keen to see how Girvase was faring and ducked away as soon as courtesy allowed. Knowing his friend’s ability, he was surprised to see that the round was still in progress—but then that, he supposed, was what tournaments were all about: testing your skill and aptitude against a wider field. The watching crowd was absorbed, and a few noisy
bets were starting to be made.
Girvase and his opponent were a match for height and build, and the stranger knight looked lithe and compact in the blue-black armor Kalan recalled from beside the black tents. The helm was closed so it was impossible to see anything of the knight’s face, but his speed and supple grace suggested that he was young. As soon as the combatants locked swords, Kalan could see that there was no advantage between them in terms of strength. They broke quickly and circled again, both light-footed as cats despite their armor, looking for an opening. The black knight sprang forward and Girvase moved back, his blade blurring in a flurry of counter and riposte. Locked together again, the swords rolled—and then it was Girvase who was attacking.
“I wonder how long they can keep this up,” said a knight in Murreward colors.
“They’re fit,” one of his comrades replied. “This may go to points.”
Those around him disclaimed immediately, because it was almost unheard of for bouts at this level to be decided on points, but Kalan noticed how closely the marshals were watching. Clearly, they thought they might be called upon to rule against one knight or the other. He could see the black knight’s seconds now, two tall knights on the far side of the ring wearing the same blue-black armor, the lightning and unicorn device stark on their white surcotes. But he did not look long, because Girvase and his antagonist were raining blows on each other in a display of skill and power that made Kalan purse his lips in a silent whistle.
The black knight’s style was fluid, almost seamless, he thought critically, while Girvase’s was crisper. And although they must both be tiring now, he still could not fault either combatant’s footwork or stance. He watched Girvase beat the black knight’s sword aside and thrust forward, while his opponent leapt nimbly back, diverting the attack with a circular riposte—and wondered how much longer the marshals would let the bout continue. A great many trials still needed to be completed that afternoon, if the tourney finals were to start tomorrow.
As if heeding Kalan’s thought, the senior marshal raised a whistle to his lips and blew a series of shrill blasts. Two of his fellows, both carrying heavily padded staves, moved forward to thrust the combatants aside—but Girvase and the black knight must have registered the whistle, for both were falling warily back. The marshals said something and both helmeted heads nodded, then raised their swords in salute before withdrawing to their corners. Kalan pushed through to reach Girvase and saw that two Allerion knights were ahead of him. “One of ours,” the foremost said, as though warning Kalan off, but Girvase shook his head.
“My sword brother,” he told them, and the Allerion knights nodded, stepping back. Girvase was breathing deeply but steadily and had pushed his visor aside. He was wearing the cool, intent look Kalan knew well. “The sword and the warrior are one,” he thought. It was a Blood axiom, one his father had been fond of quoting, but Girvase, Kalan thought, understood it in his soul. He grinned—and after a moment Girvase grinned back, the sword’s-blade look receding. “I was enjoying that,” he said. “But I suppose the marshals had to stop us.”
“Given the time,” Kalan agreed. “And no sign of any advantage developing either.” On the far side of the ring the black knight had his visor open as well, and despite the veiling coif Kalan could see that he was the same young man who had grinned at his scuffle with Raher, on that first night in the camp. But the marshals had finished conferring now and their leader beckoned the contestants back to the center of the ring.
“We need a fighter like that back in our own Mark,” one of the Allerion knights murmured to the other, so low that no one but Kalan could have overheard. Which boded well for Girvase, he supposed, before realizing that he had missed the senior marshal restating the black knight’s name. Now the marshal was reminding everyone that Girvase Ar-Allerion was the second contestant—and then he raised both knights’ arms high, signaling a draw, and the watchers erupted into cheers. The black knight leaned around to shake Girvase’s hand and both young men were smiling.
“They’re both unbeaten so far.” The taller of the Allerion knights craned to see the board. “So they’ll definitely go forward.”
His companion grunted. “A good decision, then. Although normally I don’t like an inconclusive result.”
And that, Kalan thought, seemed to be the mood of the crowd, with most of those he overheard just wanting to see both combatants fight again in the higher rounds of competition. The Allerion knights drifted off before Girvase returned, and the black knight and his seconds were walking away as Kalan removed his friend’s casque. “Where was your opponent from?” he asked.
Girvase shook his head. “I didn’t recognize his accent. Fire something, or somewhere, I thought the marshal said.” He used a rag to towel the worst of the sweat from his hair, then narrowed his eyes at the board. “We’re both done, for now. If you check on Audin’s bout, I’ll see how Raher’s doing in the joust.”
The crowd was deep around the ring where Audin was fighting, but very quiet, which meant that the clang of sword on sword was louder than usual. Kalan zigzagged his way between the onlookers until he had a clear view of the ring. Ado was in Audin’s corner, his expression strained. A knot of men in well-worn armor faced him from the opposing corner of the ring, but it was what was happening within the ropes that held everyone’s attention. Audin was taller than Kalan and almost as strongly built, but he looked slight, almost fine, beside the man who hulked opposite him. Orth, Kalan realized—with a sinking feeling in his stomach as he joined Ado, because in full armor the Derai looked as though he had been hewn from the rock of the Wall itself.
Kalan could not see the warrior’s face behind his lowered visor, but the savagery Ilaise had spoken of was evident in every movement of his body and hammer blow of his sword. Bloodlust rolled off the man, and Kalan’s fists clenched. Ilaise was right, he thought, this is someone who will deliberately maim an opponent, or even kill, uncaring of tourney rules. So far Audin was holding his own, but only just. It was clear to Kalan that the Derai warrior was overpowering him every time their blades met—and that Audin dared not let the swords lock lest his wrist be broken outright.
The question, Kalan thought, was not whether Audin could win, but how long he could hold out—and how much damage Orth would inflict before the marshals stopped him. The Derai seconds’ faces were impassive as they watched their comrade pounding into Audin. They must have seen it all before, Kalan supposed, his anger sparking.
Audin was visibly tiring now, unsurprisingly given the onslaught he was facing. He was still using his shield, but holding his arm in a way that suggested he had taken damage. The Sword warrior’s blade hammered down again, beating Audin’s sword aside as though it wasn’t there. Audin interposed his shield, and this time it took the full weight of the downstroke; he kept his arm and shield up but went down onto his knee. Ado groaned as the Sword warrior came in like a battering ram, raining blows onto the shield as Audin tried to swivel sideways and regain his feet. Across the crowd of silent watchers Kalan saw the knights in blue-black armor, disinterested behind their screening coifs and the spark of his anger quickened.
The Sword warrior’s blade pounded down again and Audin rolled, a maneuver designed to bring him back onto his feet before his opponent caught up. He almost managed it, but the Sword giant covered the ground between them in a single stride and swung his blade like a club, catching Audin a tremendous wallop in the side. The young knight staggered sideways, fighting to regain his balance and turn—to get his shield in place.
“Serrut!” whispered Ado. “I think he’s going to kill him.”
Kalan thought so, too. The intention was written in every line of the Sword warrior’s body, and Kalan could hear the blood thirst in the giant’s roar as he raised his weapon again. Now everything was in slow motion: the sword coming up and Audin starting to straighten, to turn, bringing his shield up but not in time. It could never be in time, and given that last strike he might not be able to ho
ld it anyway . . . Kalan was vaguely aware of riders watching from behind the heads of those crowded around the ring and hoped that one of them was not Ilaise, returned from watching the joust. Orth’s sword had reached its apex now and was starting to descend: it was sweeping down, a mountain of force behind it—and Kalan pulled raw power out of the Emerian earth and willed it into Audin, infusing strength into his friend’s shield arm and his legs.
The shield came into play in time and—impossibly—held. A sigh that was half a groan rippled through the crowd as Audin managed to stagger up, retreating from the Sword warrior’s renewed assault. Kalan could gauge the blows himself now, through his bulwark of earth, and could not imagine how Audin had managed to last even this long. The Derai warriors were murmuring to each other, and from what Kalan’s acute hearing could catch, they were equally amazed that Audin was still standing.
Kalan gritted his teeth, trying to shield his power use as best he could, but he dared not withdraw it. Audin might be on his feet and doggedly evading, but even with the infusion of additional strength he looked as though he might fall at any moment. Kalan bit his lip, aware of how much Audin wanted to make his own way, rather than rely on the Sondargent name and his standing as the Duke’s nephew. Yet in battle none of them would have qualms about using Oakward power to thwart an enemy, especially if confronted by a squadron of Orths.
The tourney ground is not battle, Kalan thought—but this bout has turned into life and death.
The Sword warrior had stopped roaring now and was pursuing Audin in silence, intent as a stalking wolf. In a distant corner of his mind, Kalan wondered why the marshals were letting the situation play to its bitter end, when the bout was effectively already over. He didn’t think he could afford to wait until they finally decided to take action, in any case: Audin was too near done. And even warrior Derai like Orth and his Sword comrades were bound to sense that he was supporting Audin sooner or later.
