The leader of the knights, signified by the double pennant on his lance, emerged from the fire-cones last of all and spurred his charger down the switchbacks. Emerald armor signified his nobility, but his shield displayed no crest or family.
The hounds reached the meadow long before the knights. Rangy, long-legged hunters with floppy ears and shaggy red coats, they bayed their fool lungs hoarse as they pelted across the meadow to Kogan’s tree. Once there, they crowded the trunk, leaping and baooo-ing like they’d treed a dozen bears.
First of his company to arrive, the orange knight reined in at the head of the meadow and awaited his peers and his captain. “Sir Willard!” he crowed. “We have been looking for you! What luck we should meet! Is there a dung pile near, or do I smell a peasant Wanderer?”
Willard glanced to the tree to see Kogan had clambered to his feet in the crotch of the tree and now hopped from foot to foot in order to avoid having his toes nipped. “That won’t do, lads,” Kogan said to the dogs. He swept his mallet down in a great, swooping blow that scooped one dog and sent it spinning through the branches. The hound yelped and squealed through the air and landed with a muffled thump beside Willard. Limping to its feet, it whined and slunk up the meadow to the knights.
“That’s a warning, lads,” said Kogan to the remaining dogs. “Run along now.” To help them take this to heart, he performed a couple more impressive sweeps of the mallet, and the dogs, to their credit, thought better of tempting fate. They followed their mate up the meadow.
“Rather not you leave them their scent hounds,” Willard muttered. “Better you killed them.”
“Hate to hurt a dog, Will,” Kogan called, loud enough for the orange knight to hear. “Warn’t their fault their master’s a git.”
As the rest of the knights arrived, they formed a cavalry line at the head of the meadow, Willard studied them carefully: nine fresh-faced knights in all the colors of the Arkendian blood arch. They were young men, none of them yet born when Willard led the Cleansing that drove the Old Ones from the land. Visors up, their eyes sparked with excitement as they muttered boasts up and down the line. Willard didn’t need to hear every word to know their tenor: they had found the elusive Willard, and their company would be heroes. Some would even have a hand in subduing him. All of them wanted a chance to draw his blood.
When the emerald lord finally arrived, he raised his lance in parley, and reined in before Willard. When he propped up his visor, Willard recognized the ruddy, hawkish face as belonging to a son of the earl of Eyand, a noble family long at odds with the Queen.
“Sir Willard. What a pleasant surprise,” said the nobleman. “You’ve lost the famous Molly, I see. What a pity.”
“What can I do for you, Eyand?”
“Eyand, you warthog!” the priest roared. “Put your visor down! You’re scarin’ your dogs!”
The nobleman’s dark eyes flicked briefly to the willow, then back to Willard. His voice chilled noticeably when next he spoke. “These are my terms, Sir Willard. I cannot promise you the lives of your companions. The crime of consorting with the Abominator is simply too grave, and once I deliver them to His Holiness, it is he who shall decide their fate.”
“Not much else I care about, frankly,” said Willard, “but go on. Mostly, I want to see the look of terror behind your eyes again when you say the words ‘His Holiness.’ That amuses me. After ten lifetimes, few things amuse. Yet I spent much of ten lifetimes with His So-called Holiness. Shall I tell you the amusing fate of those who ride with him? You have only to look at his shield bearer to know it. If he regains the throne, all of you will wear the mask.”
“I came not here to bandy words, Abominator.” The sneer on Eyand’s face had drained away as Willard spoke, but he raised his chin in defiance. “What I promise is this: if you surrender yourself and the Kwendi ambassador with his wedding ring, no man here will lay a hand on you in battle. None will be able to claim he unhorsed Sir Willard, none will be able to claim he bested you in battle, and your reputation will remain unsullied.”
“How foolish and vain you must think me,” Willard said, in a booming voice meant to be heard by all present. “I am the Queen’s knight, Sir Eyand. Sworn to protect. As you are sworn, for that matter. I do not submit.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the cavalry line.
“We hoped you’d say that,” said Eyand.
“I only ask that you come at me honorably, one at a time,” Willard continued in the same booming voice. “Tournament rules, no spitfires.” Eyand’s eyes flashed as he considered this. “Also, as I am lame in the leg, I ask that if an unhorsed opponent wishes to face me on foot, the priest be allowed to stand in for me.”
“And when the priest falls?” Eyand grinned.
“Then I shall stand for myself.”
“Seems a poor sort of arrangement for us.”
“Then deny me, if you prefer, and let’s be on with it,” Willard snapped. “I have other matters to attend this day.”
Eyand snorted. Turning his stallion, he rejoined his men, and the young knights converged on him. Watching their excited conversation, Willard could see them urging Eyand to accept the terms so they could all have a turn plucking honors from the corpse of Willard’s glory before surrendering him to Bannus. By announcing his terms to the whole company, Willard had made it harder for Eyand to deny them.
But Eyand was no fool. If he were careful, he’d call Field Rules and they’d come at him all at once—overwhelm him and gain the certain victory. If he did, Willard’s only hope would be to charge through their ranks and keep going up the switchbacks in a desperate bid to reach Molly before they caught him. But that was a desperate hope, and he knew it. Idgit was not strong enough to carry his armored bulk up the switchbacks at a run. Her poor legs would give out before they made the second terrace and the long-legged mounts of Eyand’s company overtook them.
Eyand held up a hand, and his men fell silent. Resuming his place at the head of the cavalry line, he called to Willard, “Tournament Rules, Sir Willard; let it not be said we denied you any terms before defeating you on your final field.”
“Good news, girl,” Willard muttered to Idgit. “Just don’t make it look too easy.”
“Malgus,” Eyand shouted down his line, “be first to greet the old man with your spear.”
From the line of waiting knights, the orange surged forward, lance lowered and shield angled before him. Willard urged Idgit in motion and drew his sword in his left hand while keeping the lance stub directed at his opponent. A glance at the priest confirmed Kogan crouched in the crotch of the tree, grinning like a fool.
Idgit had barely got up to a canter when the orange knight met them at a gallop. The painted lance darted toward Willard, but he flicked it aside with his sword and jammed the blunt end of the ash pole under the orange knight’s chin. The orange flipped backward off his horse, and Willard sat firm as the force of the blow transferred through the lance and his arm and his back into Idgit, who huffed as if she’d been kicked in the gut. He felt her hind quarters sink a little beneath him, but she didn’t stumble.
The orange knight hit the turf behind them with a dull clatter and the sickening crunk! of breaking bone and cartilage that ten lifetimes of battle taught Willard was an unlucky fall and broken neck.
Kogan released a howl of celebration. As Willard turned Idgit about, helmets up and down the line of knights turned to each other as if the knights were confirming what they had seen.
“Come on then, Eyand, you gelding,” Kogan taunted the knight. “This man’s on a pony! Is that all the Brotherhood can deal these days? Blood must be thin in the west! I’ve seen more pluck in a poxy fishwife!”
Willard cantered Idgit back toward the willow, and as they passed the orange knight, Idgit whinnied and tossed her head. The knight lay sprawled on the turf, unmoving, head at unhealthy angle.
“Keep up that lip, Kogan,” Willard growled, as he rode past Kogan’s tree, “and they won’t wait their t
urn like good little boys.”
This time, he didn’t turn Idgit to face them until he’d ridden some thirty paces past the tree, so he could meet the next knight nearer to Kogan.
As soon as Willard turned, Eyand signaled, and a gold-armored knight in flowing ribbons bounded forth, white gelding churning clods from the earth.
The gold presented his lance almost sideways, with the tip far to Willard’s right. Willard understood his plan, and it was a good one. At the last moment, the knight swung the lance to center, so its tip approached from the right, where Willard couldn’t deflect it with his sword. It was a difficult move, but the man performed it admirably. Instead of beating the shaft aside with his sword, Willard was forced to beat the darting lance upward with the shaft of his own lance, sending the deadly tip high. But the gold promptly returned the favor, beating Willard’s shaft aside with the forte of his lance, and they passed with neither scoring.
Willard smiled. Sir Gold was a skilled lancer, and though he’d obscured his crest on his shield, Willard was willing to bet this was a son of Tirr, a famous gold-blooded jousting family on the West Isle. In ten lifetimes, Willard had met more Tirrs in more tournaments than he could count, and the great thing about Tirrs was that though they were often mightily skilled lancers, they were predictable. What was their motto? In tradition, victory.
Willard snorted. His was more like, Gods take tradition—just give me the victory.
At the top of the meadow, Willard turned Idgit to face Sir Tirr, and once again they rode together, lances lowered, riders leaning forward in their saddles. This time, Willard had the slope in his favor, and he spurred Idgit into all the speed she could manage in order to meet Sir Tirr where the fallen orange knight lay.
The thing about tradition, Sir Tirr, is that it isn’t very flexible.
Tirr’s gelding churned up the meadow, and when he’d almost reached the site of the fallen knight and the combat was about to be joined, Willard swerved to the left so they would have to pass on each other’s weak side. He timed it so the gold knight could not match the maneuver and keep Willard on his strong side without trampling the orange knight where he lay. Tirr shifted his lance to his weak side, but the maneuver came off rushed and unrehearsed, so Willard easily pressed the gold lance aside, disengaged his own, and planted the stub under Tirr’s breastplate. The stave shattered in an explosion of splinters as Sir Tirr toppled from his saddle. When he hit the ground, his golden helmet dashed from his head to reveal a furious face and wild golden locks.
Idgit staggered through the blow but kept her feet again, and as they trotted back to their place beside the willow, she whinnied another challenge.
Kogan pushed through the willow curtain like a musk-auroch through a tapestry. He carried the spare lance in one hand, the long-handled mallet in the other, and the grin of a madman on his face.
“Here you go, Will.”
Willard turned the shaft in his hands to find a good grip and balance, then rested its butt on his foot in the stirrup. “Is that gold fellow up?” The priest nodded. “He’s yours. I don’t dare get off the horse while the others are mounted.”
Kogan licked his lips and squinted at Tirr. The knight was climbing to his feet. “I got him, Will.”
“Take care,” Willard said. “See the blue in his cheek? He’s blood-painting. Even dried and taken in wine, the Blood has power. Might not be as dazed as you think.”
“I seen it.”
Sir Tirr drew his sword and started for Kogan with unsteady steps.
As Kogan strode toward him, he unbelted his smothercoat so it fell before him like the wall of woolen carpets on a rug-beater’s line. As Willard predicted, Tirr lunged with surprising speed, thrusting for Kogan’s belly, but Kogan was already turning, the carpets of the smothercoat whirling outward to dampen and divert the blow.
As if finishing a dance between them, Kogan swung his mallet down in a low, swooping arc, like he intended to knock a croquet ball all the way to Kingsport. But the mallet continued its arc up beneath Tirr’s shield to catch him just below the belt, where the armor was soft. The blow lifted him—armor and all—an inch off the ground, and when he returned to earth, he crumpled like sodden paper, and Kogan stepped on his neck to finish him.
The remaining knights roared in fury.
“What’d I do?” Kogan said, eyes wide, arms spread. “Warn’t that fair?”
“Ever seen neck-stepping in tournaments?” Willard couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Field Rules it is!” Eyand snarled.
On hearing this, Kogan spat, then turned and pelted down the road, his smothercoat flapping like the wings of a drunken moth. Eyand watched him go, a snarl on his lips. “Sir Yors, remain with me. The rest, take a run at Willard with lances, then the priest. Do not let him reach the trees.”
Five knights in the cavalry surged forward as one, leaving Eyand and a red-armored knight behind. Willard spurred Idgit to meet them.
The advance line of knights thundered toward Willard, lances lowered, but each was so greedy to score the first hit that they ended up racing side by side in a line, instead of single file or in pairs. And a line was easy to evade. As soon as Idgit was up to a canter, Willard turned her sharply toward the left edge of the approaching line. By the time the line reached him and he had to face their charge, he’d moved far enough to the left that he could split the two left-most riders, making it impossible for the lances of the three other riders to reach him across the others.
As he charged between them, Willard extended the sword in his left hand, the lance in his right. The left rider tried to disengage his lance over Willard’s sword, but Willard caught it and slammed it aside and down in a circular sweep that sent the tip of the lance into the dirt. The recoil of the lance slammed the knight’s breastplate and arm, and broke the shaft as he passed.
On his right, Willard used his own lance to beat his enemy’s shaft upward, but at the same time, Idgit’s stride faltered. He dared not drive the lance into the man’s breastplate or the force of it could knock her down. She’d already given all she had, and now her legs were probably failing.
Rather than unhorsing the man, Willard settled for a ringing blow to the helmet.
And then they were through the line of knights, and the meadow opened before them. Unfortunately, Eyand had ridden behind the others and now tore down the meadow, green lance straining forward while the red knight stood as second behind him.
Willard glanced behind, confirming that the knights of the line had followed Eyand’s orders to take Kogan. To Idgit, he cried, “Give it everything you’ve got, girl! He’s coming at a run!”
At the Field of Flinders Tourney hosted by Earl Doblin, Sir Willard set the record for highest number of lances burst upon shields of opponents in one tournament. Seventy lances he burst, and it would have been greater, but Doblin ran out of lances, and when Willard called for green poles newly cut, the senior Heralds pronounced them illegal, spoiling the fun.
—From the diary of Sessil Riloy, Herald Prentice
22
Steel & Fire
Harric piled dead branches behind the boulder to make better cover, and dusted his hands off. “Did he unhorse a third one?” he said, looking up at Caris where she stood on a log beside the boulder and craned to see into the meadow.
She said nothing. A hand went to her mouth as if in surprise or fear. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh? Don’t say uh-oh,” he said, climbing onto the log beside her.
The field had changed. Kogan was now bounding toward them through the grass, smothercoat waving and flapping as a handful of knights thundered after him and still more charged Willard.
“Uh-oh…” Harric whispered.
“Five knights!” Caris called up to Brolli. “Kogan’s bringing them to us!”
“I am seeing,” said the Kwendi.
Caris climbed to the top of the boulder and craned her neck toward the running priest. “He’s going to make it,” she said.
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Harric remained at the foot of the boulder, where he could see the approaching priest through a gap in the grove. To his surprise, one of the pursuing knights discharged a spitfire at the priest. The wad soared just over Kogan’s head, spattering him with sizzling resin and spraying across the grass near Geraldine, who viewed it with her customary calm.
“Gods take them,” Harric muttered. “A wildfire could set off the whole fire-cone ridge.”
Kogan slowed and grabbed his gut as if pierced with an arrow. He bellowed like a stricken bull, then vomited a spout of beery yellow, followed by another, and another, as if each stride pumped it from his guts.
“Gods leave me, he is an idiot,” said Caris.
“Yes, but he’s our idiot,” Harric said. “Our big, strong idiot.”
After a final spout, Kogan lumbered back to speed, but the horses had gained precious ground.
Harric bit his lip as Kogan put on a burst of speed only twenty paces from the first trees. Twice that distance behind him, the lead knight spurred his mount, gleaming lance point stretching forward like the head of a viper.
*
Eyand’s lance darted for Willard’s neck, and Willard parried it high with his sword. His lance stub struck low in the center of Eyand’s shield, jolting the nobleman backward and out of his saddle, but not before Eyand steered his stallion straight into Idgit as if he would trample her.
Idgit’s weary legs collapsed and the stallion barreled into Willard, hooves slamming chest armor and helm, and the stallion’s massive shoulder knocked the wind from him. Willard spun back and over the saddle as Idgit screamed in terror.
A distant part of Willard recognized that Eyand had played on a weakness that Willard hadn’t been aware of until that moment. In ten lifetimes, no one had dared check his mount because that mount was Molly, and Molly was bigger than even the biggest Phyros stallion. Eyand had correctly guessed that Willard would never see it coming.
Bollocks.
Willard tucked his limbs in and tried to roll when he hit the turf, but one boot caught briefly in its stirrup, and that leg hit hard and skewed the landing. Dirt sprayed through the ear holes of his helm and the eye slots went dark with mud. Gasping for breath, he got a knee under him and crawled to hands and knees. He raised his visor in time to see Idgit shoulder into him as she struggled to her feet, and though she nearly trampled him, he was able to grab her reins again and hold fast until she got her hooves under her.
The Jack of Ruin Page 18
