by Guy Antibes
His partner found him.
“I get to fight a prince, eh?” the boy said.
“Just think of me as Pol Fairfield. No prince, just a competitor. We’ve sparred before.”
“We have?”
Pol nodded. “You just didn’t notice since I haven’t wanted to draw attention to myself. Just give it your best, and I’ll do the same.”
The boy smiled. “Right.” He gripped his sword and walked out onto the tourney field as the competitors found spaces for their match.
Men walked onto the field and would act as referees for the first matches. They looked like off-duty guards.
“Are you a soldier?” Pol asked the man assigned to them.
“I was and will be a miller until I’m called up again, My Prince.”
“Don’t give me any advantages. I want to fight fairly.”
“You want a fair field?” the ex-soldier laughed.
Pol just smiled at the pun on his last name. “I do.”
After a bit of warming up, Pol watched his opponent get loose, and that reminded Pol of the boy’s patterns.
“Start after two short bursts on the horn. Two good touches win the match. I won’t be counting a light tap.” He looked at Pol and the other boy until they both nodded their understanding.
The horn blasted, and Pol jumped back just as he intended to do each and every match. His opponent liked to attack, so Pol let him push him back. Practicing on a full field for weeks gave Pol a second sense where the other matches were. Perhaps it was his magic location visualization at work, but he had other things to concentrate on.
He began to go on the offensive. His opponent kept his sword high, so Pol moved past his opponent and sneaked out a tap on the other boy’s thigh.
“Not hard enough,” the referee said.
Pol grit his teeth and barely dodged a blow on his back when he hesitated, expecting a touch called. The match had gone on long enough, so Pol concentrated on the boy’s patterns and scored a touch on the inside of the boy’s forearm as he cocked his arm for a strike.
“Touch,” the referee said.
His opponent took a moment to rub his forearm.
“Begin.”
Pol reached out again when the boy cocked his arm and slapped his sword on the boy’s wrist hard enough to disarm him.
“Match. Seven won. The winner to the north side of the field. The loser can watch from the south or exit the field.”
Pol watched his former opponent sit on a bench next to a man who wrapped his arm around him, probably his father. Pol threaded his way through the other matches and found only one other boy waiting for the next round.
Each match played out in much the same way. Pol made sure he varied his style and touches, since the squires were giving advice to their charges. Siggon had gone off for some reason. He studied each match as well as he could, reinforcing the patterns that he had memorized for each boy.
Pol made it to the last two pairs. If he won this he would be in the final match along with the winners of the sixteen year and eighteen year classifications.
His opponent was one of the new boys. This one was a head taller than Pol. He had watched him in a close match the previous round and thought he knew the boy’s pattern, but his new opponent was as good as Pol thought he was. Pol was worried about his stamina, though. He could rest after this match, if he could get through it.
Pol looked at the way the boy stood, and his magic revealed that he would run towards Pol. His squire must have told him about Pol’s backing up, so Pol would jump to his right, the boy’s left, and quickly touch him in the side.
The horn blasted two times, and Pol shifted to his right as his opponent ran past him. The boy turned, but not before Pol hit him in the side. His opponent clearly favored his left side, but the referee didn’t call a touch. Pol couldn’t lose his concentration as he fought on and on. He had touched his opponent four times before his opponent barely tapped his elbow after a clinch and a push off.
Pol realized then that the match was rigged. His father and the Emperor hadn’t arrived yet, so Landon or Grostin had had words with this man. Pol had to do something dramatic, or his strength would give out. His opponent had figured the judge would let the match go on, so he began to fight more recklessly. Pol couldn’t rely on patterns alone, but he detected a lunge. The boy lost his footing, and Pol slapped him soundly on the back of his head with the flat of the blade.
His opponent fell headlong into the dirt of the tourney field and slowly rose to his feet.
“Touch?” Pol said to the judge.
The man refused to meet Pol’s eyes and stayed silent.
“What is your name?” Pol said.
The judge ran off the field. His opponent could barely focus his eyes as Pol helped him to the south side of the field and into the arms of his squire.
“You beat Dirron fair and square a number of times in your match,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No offense, My Prince,” Dirron said blinking the daze from his eyes. “You were the offended one.”
Pol watched as the two of them left the tourney grounds. That made sure Pol had won.
He had made it into the finals, but his victory had lost its savor as he dragged his way to the north side, approaching his opponent in the finals. Pol didn’t know if he could recover well enough for the final match, but he had to make a good showing to show respect for his father.
The Chief Judge declared both boys as opponents in the finals to be held just before midday and excused them.
Paki caught Pol just as he left the field. “Have you seen my father?”
Pol shook his head. “He left before my first match. You need to get ready!”
His friend looked worried. “We were to meet after your last match.”
Could his brothers have waylaid Siggon to disadvantage Pol? He couldn’t think of another explanation.
“Let’s go look for him. You don’t have much time. The sixteen-year class has been called to line up. I’ll take the festival grounds and meet you at the armory.”
Pol and Paki split up. Pol looked around the fair grounds and ran all the way to the castle. He just reached the armory when Paki returned.
“He’s not in the gardens or the woods.”
“Let’s look in the stables.”
The boys ran around the armory and began to search the stables. Horses whinnied as they slid past them in their stalls to rummage around in the straw.
Pol heard a moaning above him. “Up!”
Paki grabbed a ladder and scampered up to the loft. “Dad’s hurt pretty bad.”
Pol just couldn’t get up the ladder as quickly and felt his heart beating in his chest. He had used up most of his energy running around looking for Siggon. Pol didn’t care and found the old stable master walking into the stable.
“Siggon has been beaten, please get him to the infirmary.”
“You’ll have to help me, since all the boys are at the tourney grounds.” The man looked more angry than concerned and reluctantly helped Pol and Paki.
Pol did as much as he could, getting Siggon down from the loft.
“You go on, Paki. I’ll get him help. You’ll be late for your match.”
Paki nodded and left once they got Siggon down from the loft.
“Do you have a wheelbarrow?” Pol said. “I can’t lift him that far.”
The stable master put his hands on his hips and looked at Pol. “You don’t look so good yourself, My Prince,” he said.
“We’ve got to get help for Siggon.” Pol sat on the ground, beginning to wheeze when the man returned with a wheelbarrow. Then both of them struggled to get Siggon in the barrow.
“I’ve got a bum leg,” the man said. “You’ll have to manage mostly on your own.”
Pol narrowed his eyes in anger, but Siggon’s pitiful moan stopped that emotion. He needed to get Siggon to the infirmary, and if he had to do it himself, he would. It took him longer than he w
anted with the minimal help the stable master offered, but eventually he made it.
Only one healer was on duty. The rest were set up to assist the injured at the tourney, so it was another effort to get Siggon on a bed.
“One of you will have to help. I can’t do this all on my own,” the healer said.
The stable master shook his head. “I have horses to mind. I’ve been gone too long already.” He left the infirmary and walked away, rolling the empty wheelbarrow.
Pol took a deep breath. “I will stay if you give me some water and a moment to recover.”
The healer began to take Siggon’s clothes off, but struggled. Pol had little left in him, but he assisted the healer in disrobing the royal gardener and sat down as the healer examined Siggon.
Pol was astonished at the amount of bruises on Siggon’s body. This was a brutal attack. The healer had him wipe down Siggon’s face and while he did, Siggon grabbed hold of this wrist.
“You must return to the field. You won, didn’t you?” Siggon said. Each word seemed to be filled with pain.
“I’ll stay with you. There are only the two of us here to take care of you.”
“Leave me.” Siggon winced and his hand dropped.
“He is concussed,” the healer said. “I could see his eyes were unfocused. Continue to clean him up. The worse injuries seem to be a few broken ribs and his head. I couldn’t find any other broken bones other than his left index finger. I’ll wrap that up.”
Just then a man and women walked in. The woman’s hand was covered with blood.
“Kitchen accident,” the man said. “What’s wrong with Siggon?”
“He was beaten,” Pol said. It was because of Pol, but the boy couldn’t say it.
“You watch him, and I have to attend to the woman,” the healer said from across the room.
Pol continued to wash Siggon, and then Paki’s dad woke up again.
“Keep him awake. Don’t let him go to sleep.”
More patients came and went. No one else could talk to Siggon, so Pol continued to talk to his friend’s father. He might miss his match, but that wasn’t important. Pol had a responsibility to see Siggon well again.
Siggon again told him to go, but Pol encouraged Siggon to talk about his war stories when he scouted for King Colvin and for Pol’s grandfather, King Jaben. The storytelling brought a smile to Siggon’s face as the memories flowed. The minutes turned to hours until another healer walked in.
“There you are, My Prince. The match was called for your opponent because you failed to show.”
“I had one of your patients to care for, didn’t I?” Pol looked at Siggon, who had closed his eyes. “Siggon.” Pol nudged him. “He was awake just before you walked in.”
The healer’s eyes grew wide and he ran to the bed. He pounded on Siggon’s chest as the man’s face began to turn pale. “He just passed.”
“No! We were having a conversation.”
“Must have bled out in his brain,” the healer said. “I’m sorry. Doesn’t he have a son?”
Paki ran into the room. “How is my Dad?” he said. “Prince Grostin beat me.” Paki had a deep bruise along his chin. “A bee stung me and Grostin took advantage of it.”
“Siggon didn’t make it,” Pol said. “I’m sorry.”
Paki pushed past Pol. “He can’t be dead!” He broke into uncharacteristic tears and broke down over his father’s body. Pol noticed the little circle of blood on his forehead. Grostin’s peashooter had struck again. He suspected that both of his brothers were behind Siggon’s death, but Pol had no evidence to prove otherwise. He clenched his fists and pounded them on his leg in frustration.
However, Pol knew he couldn’t have prevailed against his opponent. Not after the entire effort of finding Siggon and taking him to the infirmary. At least Siggon seemed to enjoy his last minutes recounting old times.
Paki sat up and gave Pol an angry look. “You caused his death. If he hadn’t asked to help you today, he’d be alive. You can leave. Go!”
Pol hadn’t expected Paki to turn on him, but he was in so much shock and hurt from Siggon’s death that he shuffled out of the infirmary, head down, barely noticing the ground pass beneath him.
~~~
Chapter Eighteen
~
WHILE POL WAS TRYING TO TAKE HIS MIND OFF THE HORRIBLE MORNING by reading the religion textbook, Ranno walked into the classroom with his daughter.
“Prince Poldon, I’d like you to describe this morning’s events. My father senses a conspiracy,” Farthia said.
Pol closed the book. He wasn’t getting much of what his eyes saw. “Three events. First, someone bribed the judge for my last match to ignore my touches. I was getting fatigued and had to hurt my opponent to end the match. If I had to fight much longer, I wouldn’t have had any energy for the last match. Second,” Pol found his eyes watering. He took a deep breath to collect himself and wiped the wetness out of his eyes, “Siggon was beaten senseless. He had left the field before my first match ended. Paki and I found him in the castle stable loft. We struggled to get him to the infirmary. With only one healer and Paki’s match about to start, I sat with him and talked with him until…” Pol felt a shudder go through is body. “…Until he died from head injuries, I guess.”
“I had one of my healers look at the body. He also had internal bleeding that didn’t stop. He wouldn’t have survived the beating even if Malden attended him.”
“That doesn’t help cushion the loss. He died because he wanted to help me. Grostin—”
“Prince Grostin?”
Pol nodded. “I’m certain he’s behind it all. If anything underhanded or sneaky happens, Grostin is likely to be behind it. Paki hates me now. My best friend hates me, and for good reason since his father died because of me.” Pol buried his face in his hands.
Ranno put his hand on Pol’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, lad, but this is what happens in noble families.”
“It isn’t very noble, is it?”
“No. You said there were three events?”
Pol clutched his hands and tried to smooth out the jumble in his mind. “Paki had a mark on the side of his forehead like I had on my neck.”
Pol showed Ranno the nearly healed mark on his neck. “A man, who is expert at using a pea shooter, shot me when I fought Grostin. It cost me the match. The same thing happened to Paki. My friend called it a bee sting, but I know what it was.”
“Will Paki let me see it?”
“Just don’t tell him that I sent him. He’s probably home with his mother. She’s a cook in the kitchens. He’s really mad at me.”
“I know how that works,” Ranno said. “We’ll investigate. Will you help me?”
“You have the Emperor to attend to, don’t you?”
Ranno shook his head. “Not while we are camped. The beatings seem more like something your older brother would arrange, and the pea shooter and the judge are more Prince Grostin’s style.” Ranno looked at Farthia, who nodded back.
“I don’t think Landon is smart enough to arrange anything,” Pol said. He shouldn’t have said that, but he felt so badly, he knew he had lost control over his emotions.
Farthia dragged a chair next to Pol and put her arm around him. “You think you know who did it, but my father is an expert at investigation. Let him help prove what happened.”
“No one will care,” Pol said. “If you find my brothers are the culprits, my father will just say ‘boys will be boys’ and leave it at that. There have been other incidents, as well as their constant sneers and nasty comments.” Pol looked down at his hands. They felt dirty after what happened. “I’m sorry. I’m really upset, and I can’t think properly.”
“Do you have anything to attend today?”
Pol shook his head. “Dinner tomorrow night after the tourney.”
“I suggest you stay in your rooms,” Ranno said. “I’ll be by a few times because I know you can help me.”
“I don’t know how.”<
br />
Ranno squeezed Pol’s shoulder. “Let me worry about that.”
~
Pol relaxed on the couch and closed his eyes. He rang for food and a servant knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Pol said.
Paki brought a tray of food.
“What are you doing here? I thought you hated me along with my siblings.”
After putting the tray on the table in the room, Paki sat down and put his feet on the low table in front of the couch. “I suppose I can relax in here.”
“Whatever you want,” Pol said. “I feel badly about Siggon. I really do. You know that.”
“I do. I threw you out of the infirmary because I was hurt. I still hurt, but not as much. My mother ordered me to deliver the food.” He jerked his thumb towards the table behind him. “Mistress Farthia’s father helped explain things. What were Dad’s last minutes like?”
Pol felt much better with Paki willing to talk to him. “He didn’t expect to die, so there weren’t any last words to you or your mother. The healer told me to keep him awake with the head injury, so we talked about old times, and then I got him telling me old war stories. He had lots of experiences. He was in some pain, but he kept talking and seemed to think just fine until he stopped talking. I was distracted with another healer with a patient coming in, and then he just slipped away. Ranno, the Emperor’s advisor, said that he died from bleeding inside his body, as well as bleeding inside his head.”
Paki looked at his feet on the table. His eyes were moist. “At least he didn’t die alone,” he said and sighed. “I didn’t want to lose my father.”
“And I didn’t want to lose my friend. He volunteered to help me, and then he intended to help you.”
“Can I take back what I said?”
Pol nodded. “We’re still friends and I’ll let you know what Ranno comes up with.”
“You missed the final match because of my father. Competing in front of the Emperor. That would have been a high honor,” Paki said.
