by Angus Wells
She returned inside her room as the practice ended, wondering what the outcome of the tourney should be.
“I’VE NO LIKING FOR THIS,” Lofantyl told Abra. “Cullyn is my friend, and I’ve no wish to fight him.”
“Then don’t,” she said.
“I’m left no choice.”
Her hand touched his mouth, closed it. “I’d stay here with you,” she said. “I love you, so why must you fight Cullyn?”
“Honor demands it. Ky’atha has challenged Kash’ma, and we’re caught up in the game.”
THE DAY CAME. It was a fine day, the sun riding a clear blue sky speckled with swifts and swallows and larks. To the left of the Dur’em Zheit pavilions, the river drifted wide and sparkling. Trout larger than any Cullyn had seen leapt from the water to snatch dancing insects from the air above. To the right, thick woodland grew, great oaks and solemn beeches, and between was a wide sward of grass, cropped down and greener than any in Kandar.
The pavilions were magnificent, multicolored and spacious, their interiors spread with silken carpets, each one fronted with the pennant of the occupying family. Cullyn shared with Eben and Laurens, theirs set beside that of Pyris and his wife—and Lyandra.
That night, at dusk, it had been agreed the formal confrontations would be made—challenger to challenged. The next day, at noon, the tourney would commence. Cullyn waited in uncomfortable anticipation as Durrym wandered about the encampment. Zheit and Shahn mingled as if it were a festival, placing wagers on the victor. Cullyn felt as if he were a horse on which they bet, and wondered at these strange folk who seemed capable of enmity and generosity, both.
He dreaded the combat.
“YOU’RE SURE YOU’LL NOT WEAR ARMOR?” Laurens asked him. “It’d be safer.”
“It weighs me down, and I can’t see out of that cursed helmet,” he replied. “And if I really am syn’qui, I shouldn’t need it.”
“Being syn’qui,” Ebens replied cheerfully, “doesn’t guarantee your success.”
“You’re mightily encouraging.”
The wizard shrugged. “I tell you only the truth. That’s not always pleasant.”
A trumpet sounded and Lyandra came. “It’s time,” she said, grinning at Cullyn.
He rose and went out of the tent to meet Lofantyl.
THEY MET MIDWAY DOWN the jousting ground. Lofantyl wore a flowing robe, and Abra stood beside him in a gown of pale blue silk that flattered her red hair. Jewels decorated her coiffure, more ringing her fingers. She looked lovely—and concerned. Isydrian stood beside them, and by him a tall, hawk-faced man he introduced as Afranydyr, his elder son. Cullyn was accompanied by Eben and Laurens and Pyris, Lyandra standing to his left, her eyes measuring Abra.
The keep lords bowed formally and Pyris said: “We offer challenge.”
“To what end?” Isydrian replied.
“That, do we vanquish, you shall allow Cullyn of Kandar to speak with the Garm woman, and heed their decision. Does she agree to return home, then you allow her to go.”
Cullyn saw Abra clutch Lofantyl’s arm and shake her head. But Pyris nodded: “It shall be so.”
“Then on the morrow—” Pyris started. And was interrupted by Abra’s cry.
“I don’t want to go home! I love Lofantyl. I want to stay with him in Coim’na Drhu.”
Isydrian ignored her outburst. “There are other settlements to be agreed.”
“Which are?” Pyris asked.
“Does your man win,” Isydrian said, “then the terms are yours to dictate. If not …” He eyed Eben with a cold stare. “My son and his companions are mine. To do with as I see fit.”
“You were ever loathsome,” Eben murmured.
Isydrian favored him with a contemptuous smile and looked to Pyris. “Agreed?”
Pyris nodded. “Agreed.”
Cullyn felt the world spinning around him as his fate was decided. He stared at Abra and felt Lyandra’s hand grasp his. He opened his mouth to say that he had no wish to fight Lofantyl, but his fey friend spoke first.
“I’ll not fight him.”
“What?” Isydrian stared aghast at his son. “Are you a coward? Has all that time you spent in the Garm lands changed you?”
“No.” Lofantyl shook his head. “But I cannot fight him. It would be without honor.”
“You’re crazed,” Isydrian said. “This Garm romance has destroyed your mind.”
“I gave him the lyn’nha’thall.” Lofantyl pointed at the knife on Cullyn’s belt. “We swore friendship. I cannot fight him!”
He winked at Cullyn, who smiled back in relief.
“We must find some other way to settle this,” he said.
And then his brother spoke. “With champions! Let me take Lofantyl’s place.”
Isydrian stared at his sons and shook his head, then turned to Pyris. “What Lofantyl says is right, do you not agree?”
Pyris nodded.
“Then Afranydyr shall be champion of the Shahn. Shall you accept that?”
Pyris nodded again.
“And yours?”
“Let me fight him,” Laurens whispered. “I’d enjoy knocking that cockinjay off his horse.”
“No.” Cullyn shook his head. “I must do this myself.”
Eben clapped his hands. “Well said, lad. Better to sort things out yourself.”
Afranydyr stepped closer, an ugly smile twisting his lips, and said, “I take my brother’s place. Do you agree?”
Cullyn nodded.
“Then at noon tomorrow we fight. Lance and shield, eh?” He grinned wickedly. “And I shall put my point through your chest and slay you. And the Garm woman shall be my brother’s concubine, and your friends become my slaves.”
“Perhaps,” Cullyn answered. “Or perhaps not.”
He felt anger grow inside him that he did not understand, save that he disliked Afranydyr for his arrogance and presumption. He had no wish to fight with Lofantyl: that Durrym was his friend, but Afranydyr … He felt a loathing for the man and even though he doubted he could win the combat, still he felt a sudden and great desire to defeat this arrogant fey.
“On the morrow,” he said, “I shall bring you down.”
Afranydyr laughed. “Dream on, Garm.”
He sneered at Cullyn, utterly confident. Cullyn took a deep breath and turned toward the fey lords.
“I’ve terms of my own, do I defeat Afranydyr.”
“And those are?” Isydrian asked.
“I’ll state them after,” Cullyn said. “Am I able.”
Eben cried, “Well done, lad.”
Afranydyr chuckled, confident.
SIXTEEN
IT WAS A FINE, BRIGHT DAY, as if the Durrym adjusted the seasons to their own purposes. Billows of white clouds sailed across a sky of pure blue, from which shone a sun that belonged to high summer. The grass between the pavilions shone emerald green and birds sang loud from the trees as Cullyn emerged from his tent. He wore a padded tunic, but was otherwise unarmored as he went to Fey and saddled the big black stallion. He had refused to accept horse armor in favor of speed and agility; he hoped he did the right thing.
Fey snorted and stamped as he set the saddle on, as if anticipating the combat, and Cullyn stroked the glossy neck.
“Remember,” Laurens said, “you’ve two choices—aim at his shield and look to take him from his saddle. Or keep your lance low and your shield high, and aim for his groin. The armor’s weakest there, and can you put your point in—”
“I thought this was a formal combat.” Cullyn set the bit between Fey’s champing teeth. “Shouldn’t I aim for his shield? Aren’t we meant to unhorse our opponent?”
“He looks to slay you,” Laurens said, his smile cynical. “Didn’t you hear him? Didn’t you see his eyes?”
“He’s right,” Eben said. “Afranydyr’s not like Lofantyl—he’s no love for Garm. If you were facing Lofantyl it would be a true tourney. But this is a fight.”
“But I don’t want to sla
y him,” Cullyn protested. “I thought that if I can unseat him—”
“He’ll come at you again,” Eben said. “He’s cold as his father, and he’ll not be satisfied until you’re dead.”
“Unseat him and ride him down,” Laurens urged. “Use Fey. And if you must fight afoot, remember what I’ve taught you.” He indicated the array of weapons set beside the lances. There was a wickedly spiked morning star, and a three-bladed mace, a massive broadsword, and the lighter sword Laurens had taught him—somewhat—to use. “Listen!” Laurens said. “If you can take him from his saddle, go over him. Then come back—I’ll have the mace ready, and all you’ll need do is smash his skull. He’s better used to blade work than you, so try to avoid that. Just look to slay him, eh?”
Cullyn felt no wish to slay anyone, but it seemed he had no choice.
“The gods be with you,” Eben said.
Laurens added, “Amen.”
Then a trumpet sounded, shrilling into the morning, and Cullyn swung astride Fey. Eben and Laurens took the place of his squires, leading him to the tourney ground. He could see Lofantyl watching from the farther end, Abra at his side, clutching his arm. Both their faces were pale and intense, as if they’d no more taste for this com bat than he. Isydrian, like Pyris, occupied a high seat midway along the path, which was warded by fences; a crowd of attendants lined the wicker walls. At each end of the ground there were six high lances set on frames, with shields beside, and all the other weapons that Cullyn thought looked too ponderous to wield. He found it hard to imagine swinging that dreadful mace against Afranydyr’s skull. He wished he could avoid this combat.
Then Lyandra appeared, dressed in a gown of clinging white, took his hand, and handed him a scarf.
“Wear my favor, eh? For you are my champion, and after you’ve defeated that churl, we’ll …” She smiled at him enticingly, and he felt his head swirl as he tucked her favor under his belt. He wondered again what he did—but then the trumpet sounded anew, and Lyandra set a foot to his stirrup and planted a kiss on his lips before she darted away. He was led reluctantly forward.
Eben handed him a shield that he fastened to his left arm. It was little more than a buckler, square-shaped and inwardly curved—intended to deflect a lance in formal joust. Eben whispered, “I’ve set what strength I can in this, but be careful.”
Laurens passed him the lance, its tip pointed, the wood flaring out beyond the grip. He couched the farther end between ribs and elbow. And waited, his heart pounding as Fey stamped the grass, far more eager than Cullyn to attack.
Afranydyr appeared. He wore armor—a breastplate of polished black wood, pauldrons and greaves and vam-braces, a helm fashioned like the face of the hawk he resembled, his eyes staring out above a hooked beak that was overhung with spread wings. The shape of a hawk was painted on his shield. He looked magnificent. And shouted a challenge as he took hold of his lance.
“No armor? Are you mad, Garm? I shall slay you—save you surrender now. Surrender and I’ll let you live. I’ll take you for a servant—that’s better than dying, no?”
Cullyn said, “No.”
“He seeks to disconcert you,” Laurens murmured.
“He’s afraid of you,” Eben whispered. “He knows you’re syn’qui.”
Afranydyr shouted: “Well? Shall you submit now, or must I slay you?”
“You’re syn’qui,” Eben said, “and you do what you must.”
“Aim low,” Laurens repeated. “Put your point in his gut, take the bastard off his saddle and kill him.”
Cullyn said, “Shall we begin?”
THEY DREW THEIR HORSES BACK and couched their lances. Pyris and Isydrian looked at one another and nodded. Each raised handkerchiefs; a trumpet sounded and the handkerchiefs dropped together. The combatants charged.
Cullyn drove his heels hard into Fey’s ribs, for all the stallion needed no urging. He charged eagerly toward Afranydyr’s mount, as if angered by this combat. Cullyn held his lance pointed as Laurens had taught him. Afranydyr crouched in his saddle, protected by shield and armor, his lance angled at Cullyn’s shield.
Cullyn saw it coming and raised his own, so that both lances struck against the shields. He felt a tremendous shock run through his arm. It was far worse than the practice combats with Laurens. He felt his shield knocked aside and pain flash through his shoulder. He barely held on to his lance as he swerved Fey around before Afranydyr could recover, and found the farther end of the tourney ground and charged again.
Afranydyr had already brought his mount around, and had his shield up as Cullyn came toward him. They dashed at one another, Afranydyr crouched low in his saddle, protecting his body with the shield and his armor. Cullyn raised his own shield and wondered if he had done better to armor himself.
Then no time for thought: only the lance’s point driving at him, and the impact of point on shield.
It was worse than before. Cullyn felt it through his entire body. He swayed backward in his saddle as splinters of broken wood flashed past his face and he felt his lance torn from his grip. Fey bucked under him and he barely held astride his saddle. He rode the stallion down the tourney ground with his opponent’s laughter ringing dimly in his ears.
“Next turn I slay you, Garm!”
He reached the farther end and turned Fey to a prancing stop. Laurens threw him a fresh lance, that he caught from the air and couched, and charged again. It was only as he thundered toward Afranydyr that he realized his shield was broken, splintered by the Durrym’s lance point. Briefly, he wondered if Eben was truly gifted. But …
Too late now to correct the mistake. He approached the Durrym and dropped his point as Laurens had advised. He wondered if it were honorable, and then Afranydyr’s lance exploded through his shield and he saw splinters fly past his face as the world turned upside down and he realized in its spinning that he was pitched backward from his saddle.
He struck the ground and felt his breath smashed from his lungs. He tasted vomit in his mouth and smelled green grass and horse dung. He spat, which delivered him the taste of salty blood, and looked down at his torso. Afranydyr’s point had gone in through his ribs, and when he took another gusty breath, he felt pain start through his side, and it seemed the world swung askew about him. He climbed panting to his feet. His side ached horribly, and his breath came thick past gobbets of dark and bloody phlegm. He saw his shirt colored and his shield was splintered, dangling uselessly from his arm: he tossed it aside. His ribs drove lances of pain into his side as he rose, and the tourney ground was misty and moving. The river and the trees and the pavilions swirled. And through the swirling, he dimly saw Afranydyr’s armored bay charging toward him, his opponent couching his lance so that it drove into his unarmored, bleeding chest.
He staggered, weaving as the big horse came toward him, and he saw, in confused triple vision, the point of the lance that must surely pierce him, pick him up, pin him, and deliver him to death.
He had no defense, save the knife Lofantyl had gifted him. He drew it and prepared to meet his death.
Then Afranydyr’s mount was smashed aside by Fey, turning Afranydyr’s lance from Cullyn. The terrible impact flung the bay horse onto its side, pitching Afranydyr from the saddle. The Durrym fell trapped, the weight of his overturned horse pinning him to the ground. He bellowed curses as he raised his shield against Fey’s stamping hoofs.
His head still spinning, Cullyn stumbled forward. His vision began to clear and he saw Fey rear up, screaming furiously, and smash his hooves down against the bay’s ribs. The Durrym animal squealed as blood spurted from its nostrils and mouth. Its side was caved in. Fey bent and snapped teeth into the neck and shook the fallen horse as a terrier shakes a rat. Then reared again, preparing to strike Afranydyr.
The Durrym’s shield was broken by the dreadful impact of the stallion’s hoofs, bits and pieces of wood hanging from his upraised arm. He was still trapped by the body of his dead mount, and he could not draw his sword—for what good t
hat might have done.
Cullyn forced himself to run, shouting at Fey.
“No! Leave him!”
The black stallion danced on his hind legs, the forelegs pawing air. Cullyn shouted again and Fey dropped, hooves crashing close to Afranydyr’s face. He snapped his teeth a hand’s span from Afranydyr’s face and moved back, eyeing Cullyn as if disappointed.
Cullyn took his bridle and walked the stallion away. “Thank you.” He stroked the velvet nose. “You saved my life. But now I must settle this.”
Fey snorted and stared at him as if he were mad. His eyes and champing teeth said, Slay him and be done with it. Cullyn forced him back, stroking the neck now, smelling the exciting scent of horse sweat. He calmed the stallion and turned toward Afranydyr.
“Shall we leave this?” he asked. “I’ve no wish to slay you.”
“No!” Afranydyr glowered at him, pride hot in his eyes. “Cede the combat to a Garm’kes Lyn? Never!”
“I only came here to bring Abra home,” Cullyn said. “And now I’m not even sure of that.”
“Cursed Garm,” Afranydyr replied. “Do you think I want her? No, but my brother’s stupid—in love with her.”
“We can talk about that. We can talk about peace between Kash’ma and Ky’atha; between Kandar and Coim’na Drhu.”
“No!”
Afranydyr heaved himself from under his dead mount and limped to where the weapons were racked. He picked up a broadsword. Cullyn said, “No!” even as the Durrym came toward him with the big sword circling above his head.
It whistled through the afternoon air, sunlight bright on the blade. Cullyn ducked under a decapitating swing and stepped away. His vision was returned now—no longer tripling—but his legs were unsteady, his stomach queasy. And he realized that his only weapon was the lyn’nha’thall Lofantyl had given him. He pressed a hand against his aching ribs and saw his fingers stained with blood. He saw Afranydyr bring the great blade back and danced away again as the blade cut air before his face, instinctively raising the lyn’nha’thall. It was smashed from his hand, the blade splintering as Afranydyr shouted from behind his hawk-featured helm, and raised the great sword again.
