Even Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the sight; his father had spared no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables, banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.
Behind them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were targets being prepared for stone-hurling, spear-throwing, archery—and, at the center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around it.
Crowds were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first to enter, of course, was Kendrick, mounted on his horse and bedecked in armor, followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back from the others on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like a magnet for attention; even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth noted her lust for him, like all the other women.
“He’s nearly of selection age, yet he’s not married. Any woman in the kingdom would marry him. Why does he choose none of us?”
“And what do you care?” Gareth asked, feeling jealous despite himself. He too, wanted to be up there in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father’s name. But he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.
Helena ignored him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You are not a man,” she said, derisively. “You do not understand these things.”
Gareth blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands with the others to watch the day’s festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.
As he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.
One day he would have his way. One day he would be King.
One day.
Chapter VIII
THOR DID HIS BEST TO keep up with Erec’s squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and that he had been named second squire to Erec.
“I told you, boy—keep up!” Feithgold snapped.
Thor resented being called “boy,” especially as the squire was hardly a few years older. Feithgold darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to lose Thor.
“Is it always this crowded here?” Thor called out, trying to catch up.
“Of course not!” Feithgold yelled back. “Today is not only the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, but also the day the King chose for his daughter’s wedding—and the only day in history we’ve opened our gates to the McClouds. There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn’t expected this! I fear we will be late!” he said, all in a rush, as he sped through the crowd.
“Where are we going?” Thor asked.
“We’re going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!”
“Prepare for what?” Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“The royal joust!”
They finally reached the edge of the crowd and stopped before a King’s guard, who recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.
They slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor could hardly believe it; there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge warhorses—the largest Thor had ever seen—mounted by knights in all manner of armor. Mixed among the Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had descended on these jousting lanes.
There were already some competitions in progress, knights from places Thor did not recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It was a deadly art.
“It hardly seems like a sport!” Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the perimeter of the lanes.
“That’s because it is not,” Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. “It is a serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle. Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between.”
Thor looked up as two knights charged each other and collided at full speed. There was an awful crash of metal on metal, then one of them flew off his horse and landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.
The crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor saw a piece of a wooden shaft stuck in his ribs, piercing his armor. He cried out in pain and blood poured from his mouth. Several squires ran over to attend him, dragging him off the field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the crowd.
Thor was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.
“What those boys just did—that is your job now,” Feithgold said. “You are squire now. More precisely, second squire.”
He stopped and came in close—so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.
“And don’t you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to assist me. Do you understand?”
Thor nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going differently in his head, and still didn’t know exactly what was in store for him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he had made an enemy.
“It is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec’s squire,” Thor said.
Feithgold let out a short, derisive laugh.
“You couldn’t interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do as I tell you.”
With that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting, squires nervously tending to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor had to catch his breath. He could hardly believe something so big and beautiful was real, let alone could be contained behind a fence. It looked ready for war.
“Warkfin,” Feithgold said. “Erec’s horse. Or one of them—the one he prefers for jousting. Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate,” Feithgold ordered.
Thor looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out. He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He pulled harder until it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.
The second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back, and kicked the wood, just grazing the tip of Thor’s finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.
Feithgold laughed.
“That’s why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one. Especially you.”
Thor was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how he would be able to put up with him.
He quickly open the wooden gates, this time stepping out of the way of the horse’s flailing legs.
“Shall I bring him out?” Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab the reins as Warkfin stomped and swayed.
“Of course not,” Feithgold said. “That is my role. Your role is to feed him—when I tell you to. And to shovel his waste.”
Feithgold grabbed Warkfin’s reins and began to lead him down
the stables. Thor swallowed, watching. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle, training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a servant-in-waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.
They finally left the dark stables for the bright light of day, back in the jousting lanes. Thor squinted from the change, and was momentarily overcome by thousands of people cheering the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other. He’d never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth quaked from the horses’ massive gait.
All around were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished their knights’ armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps, and double-checked weapons as knights mounted their steeds and waited for their names to be called.
“Elmalkin!” an announcer called out.
A knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor, galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. The knight charged down the narrow lane, and his lance brushed off the shield of a competitor. They clanged, the other knight’s lance struck, and Elmalkin went flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.
Elmalkin immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around and reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.
“My mace!” the knight yelled out.
The squire next to Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack and sprinting out toward the center of the lane. He ran toward Elmalkin, but the other knight had circled back and was charging again. Just before the squire reached him to placing the mace into his master’s hand, the other knight thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach Elmalkin in time. The other knight brought his lance down—and as he did, his lance sideswiped the squire’s head. The squire, reeling from the blow, spun around quickly and went down to the dirt, face first.
He did not move. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here, staining the dirt.
Thor swallowed.
“It’s not a pretty sight, is it?”
Thor turned to see Feithgold standing beside him, staring back.
“Steel yourself, boy. This is battle. And we’re right in the middle of it.”
The crowd suddenly grew quiet as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could sense anticipation in the air as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation of this one. On one side, out came Kendrick, walking out on his horse, lance in hand.
On the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the McClouds.
“MacGils versus McClouds,” Feithgold whispered to Thor. “We’ve been at war for a thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it.”
Each knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged each other.
Thor was amazed at how much speed they picked up before they moments later collided with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped as both fighters fell from their horses.
They each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had. Watching Kendrick swing and slash mesmerized Thor: it was a thing of beauty. But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each exhausting the other, neither giving ground.
Finally their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other’s swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick reached for his mace, the McCloud’s squire ran up behind him and struck him in the back with his own weapon, the blow sending him to the ground, to the horrified gasp of the crowd.
The McCloud knight retrieved his sword, stepped forward, and pointed it at Kendrick’s throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.
“I concede!” he yelled.
There was a victorious shout among the McClouds—but a shout of anger from the MacGils.
“He cheated!” yelled out the MacGils.
“He cheated! He cheated!” echoed a chorus of angry cries.
The mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides—the MacGils and McClouds—began to approach each other on foot.
“This isn’t good,” Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.
Moments later, the crowd erupted; blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each other to the ground. The crowd swelled and the brawl threatened to blow up into an all-out war.
A horn sounded and guards from both sides marched in, managing to split up the crowd. Another, louder, horn sounded, and silence fell as King MacGil stood from his throne.
“There will be no skirmishes today!” he boomed in his kingly voice. “Not on this day of celebration! And not in my court!”
Slowly, the crowd calmed.
“If it is a contest you wish for between our two great clans, it will be decided by one fighter, one champion, from each side.”
MacGil looked to King McCloud, who sat on the far side, seated with his entourage.
“Agreed?” MacGil yelled out.
McCloud stood solemnly.
“Agreed!” he echoed.
The crowd cheered on both sides.
“Choose your best man!” MacGil yelled.
“I already have,” McCloud said.
There emerged from the McCloud side a formidable knight, the biggest man Thor had ever seen, mounted on his horse. He looked like a boulder, all bulk, with a long beard and a scowl that looked permanent.
Thor sensed movement beside him, and right next to him, Erec stepped up, mounted Warkfin, and walked forward. Thor swallowed. He could hardly believe this was happening all around him. He swelled with pride for Erec.
Then he was overcome with anxiety, as he realized he was on duty. After all, he was squire and his knight was about to fight.
“What do we do?” Thor asked Feithgold in a rush.
“Just stand back and do as I tell you,” he answered.
Erec strode forward into the jousting lane, and the two knights stayed there, facing each other, their horses stomping in a tense standoff. Thor’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited and watched.
A horn sounded, and the two charged each other.
Thor could not believe the beauty and grace of Warkfin—it was like watching a fish jump from the sea. The other knight was huge, but Erec was a graceful and sleek fighter. He cut through the air, his head low, his silver armor rippling, more polished than any armor he had laid his eyes upon.
As the two men met, Erec held his lance with perfect aim and leaned to the side. He managed to knock the knight in the center of his shield while simultaneously dodging his blow.
The huge mountain of a man tumbled backwards, onto the ground. It was like a boulder landing.
The MacGil crowd cheered as Erec rode past, turned, and circled back. He raised his face plate and held the tip of his lance to the man’s throat.
“Yield!” Erec yelled down.
The knight spit.
“Never!”
The knight then reached into a hidden satchel on his waist, pulled out a handful of dirt, and before Erec could react, threw it into Erec’s face.
Erec, stunned, reached for his eyes, dropping his lance and falling from his horse.
The MacGil crowd booed and hissed and cried in outrage as Erec fell, clutching his eyes. The knight, wasting no time, hurried over and kneed him in the ribs.
Erec rolled over, and the knight grabbed a huge rock, picked it up high, and prepared to bring it down on Erec’s skull.
“NO!” Thor screamed, stepping forward, unable to control himself.
Thor watched in horror as the knight brought down the rock. At the
last second, Erec somehow rolled out of the way. The stone lodged deep into the ground, right where his skull had been.
Thor was amazed at Erec’s dexterity. He was already back on his feet, facing this dirty fighter.
“Short swords!” the Kings cried out.
Feithgold suddenly wheeled and stared at Thor, wide-eyed.
“Hand it to me!” he yelled.
Thor’s heart pounded in panic. He spun around, searching Erec’s weapons rack, looking desperately for the sword. There was a dizzying array of weapons before him. He reached out, grabbed it, and thrust it into Feithgold’s palm.
“Stupid boy! That is a medium sword!” Feithgold yelled.
Thor’s throat went dry; he felt the whole kingdom staring at him. His vision was blurry with anxiety as he spiraled into panic, not knowing which sword to choose. He could barely focus.
Feithgold stepped forward, shoved Thor out of the way, and grabbed the short sword himself. He then raced out into the jousting lane.
Thor watched him go, feeling useless, horrible. He also tried to imagine if it were himself running out there, in front of all those people, and his knees grew weak.
The other knight’s squire reached him first, and Erec had to jump out of the way as the knight swung for him, barely missing. Finally, Feithgold reached Erec and placed the short sword into his hand. As he did, the knight charged Erec. But Erec was too clever. He waited until the last moment, then jumped out of the way.
The knight kept charging, though, and ran right into Feithgold, standing, to his bad luck, in the place where Erec had just been. The knight, filled with rage at missing Erec, kept charging and grabbed Feithgold with both hands by his hair, and head-butted him hard in the face.
There was a cracking of bone as blood squirted from Feithgold’s nose and he collapsed to the ground, limp.
Thor stood there, mouth open in shock. He could not believe it. Neither could the crowd, which booed and hissed.
Erec swung around with his sword, just missing the knight, and the two faced each other again.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 64
