Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

  Time passed, and Sir Kay emerged triumphant. He had only to face one more contestant, the other survivor of the many lists. The Sombre Warrior took his place at the end of the lane opposite Sir Kay, and the two masked men faced each other. The crowds went quiet, the air full of tense expectation. Just like Sir Kay, the Sombre Warrior had said that if he lost, he would unmask.

  The horses snorted loudly, sensing the anticipation in the air, and slammed their hooves against the ground, impatient to be off. The two men held their places, letting the tension build. At the end of the bout, one of them would have to take off his helm and show his face, and the audience couldn’t decide which they were most curious about. The Sombre Warrior was a big man, and looked even bigger in full armour. Almost twice the size of the youthful Sir Kay. The crowd had seen lances snap and shatter against the Sombre Warrior’s armoured chest, while Sir Kay had never been hit once. The Sombre Warrior urged his horse slowly forward, and the crowd tensed, but the horse was heading for the raked seating. The Sombre Warrior extended his lance out across the seats, over everyone’s heads, to the Princess Catherine. She rose from her throne and tied a handkerchief to the very end of the lance. Her favour, for all to see. The crowd loved that echo of old chivalry, and cheered both of them loudly. The Princess sat down again, and the Sombre Warrior moved his horse back into position, facing Sir Kay. They both started forward.

  • • •

  Hawk and Fisher, Jack and Gillian, and Chappie the dog made their way through the Tourney, taking a great interest in everything it had to offer. Hawk and Fisher took the lead, striding forward, and everyone else hurried to get out of their way. The crowds knew real fighters when they saw them. Jack wandered amiably along behind them, saying Sorry, sorry about that, and everyone nodded respectfully to the old man in monk’s robes. A few disreputable types looked like they weren’t of a mind to accept the insult or the apology, but Gillian just stared them down with a cold eye. Chappie bounded happily along, here, there, and everywhere, sticking his nose into everything. And because he was after all a very big dog, everyone let him. Jack moved forward, to walk beside Hawk.

  “Were the Tourneys as large and magnificent as this in your day, Father?”

  “No,” said Hawk. “There were no Tourneys under my father, King John. He didn’t approve. Saw them as frivolous. Combat was too important to be wasted on the cheers of the populace. The only real battles I saw, up close and personal, were in the political arena. You couldn’t beat the Landsgraves when it came to sneak attacks and general backstabbing. It was a much colder place here in those days.”

  Swordsmen stamped and thrust and parried in fighting circles on every side, because anyone who could stand up straight and carry a sword was allowed to enter. All you had to do was give your name to the steward, along with the name of your next of kin, and wait for your turn. Most didn’t last long. Courage and brute strength could take a raw beginner only so far. The various Sorting Houses always sent their best swordsmen, to help sort the wheat from the chaff and demonstrate how good a swordsman the Sorting Houses could make a man. Supporters from all the various houses were also there, to cheer and boo as necessary. They all served the Brotherhood of Steel, but the Brotherhood had always believed in the value of healthy rivalry between houses.

  Blades slammed together, sparks flying on the air as steel clashed with steel, and hard-faced men and women stamped back and forth in the confines of the fighting circles. Simple rules: stay within the circle, and duel to first blood. As the more hapless combatants were quickly weeded out, the duels became longer, more interesting affairs. Displays of strength and speed, and swordsmanship. Nearly always stopping at first blood. Of which there was quite a bit. Stewards were constantly running back and forth, throwing buckets of water across the churned-up earth to wash the blood away between contests. Otherwise no one could be sure of their footing.

  It was all supposed to be thoroughly good-natured, and mostly it was. But now and again someone would lose their temper, and the red mist would descend, and they’d insist on fighting on. As long as it wasn’t too mismatched, the stewards usually let them. The crowds weren’t here for displays of skill. They wanted blood and suffering and the occasional death, even if few would actually admit it.

  Hawk and his family stood together at the edge of one circle, watching. Hawk had to admit there was a lot of really skilled swordsmanship on display. Men and women who knew what they were doing. He became aware that his son, Jack, was watching the fight with a certain wistfulness.

  “Do you want to have a go, Jack?” said Hawk.

  “No,” the monk said immediately. “It wouldn’t be fair, with my Walking Man abilities. Gillian, how about you?”

  “Love to,” said Gillian.

  She shouldered her way to the front of the queue, and no one objected once they heard her give her name and status to the steward. The watching crowd elbowed one another expectantly. A trainer from a Sorting House! Now they’d see something! Gillian drew her sword and strode briskly into the circle, where she found herself facing a young soldier in his early twenties. He took one look at the seventy-year-old woman with her iron grey hair and laughed in her face.

  “Oh, he shouldn’t have done that,” said Jack.

  “Get out of the circle, Granny!” said the soldier. “I don’t care what kind of reputation you might have had once. Those days are gone. The circle’s all about the here and now. Go on home and tend to your knitting.”

  “I can’t watch,” said Jack. “This is going to be bad.”

  “I should certainly hope so,” said Fisher.

  Gillian advanced on the young soldier and proceeded to beat him back and forth and round and round the circle, driving him this way and that through sheer force of skill and long years of training. She couldn’t keep it up for long, but the young man didn’t know that. He staggered backwards, struggling to keep his guard up, his eyes wide with shock. The moment Gillian realised she was starting to slow down, she lunged forward and disarmed him with one subtle move. The man stood there numbly, watching his sword fly through the air to land in the mud. He looked at his blade, and then at Gillian, and his face went ugly.

  “It’s a trick! You cheated, you rotten old bitch!”

  Gillian punched him in the face. The whole crowd went ooh! as they heard his nose break. The young soldier left the circle, crying. The crowd applauded Gillian loudly. They liked a character. Gillian nodded happily and called, “Who’s next?”

  She took on a dozen more opponents and beat them all. Her opponents grew increasingly more skilled, and more respectful, but it didn’t help. Long experience and an extensive knowledge of dirty tricks were always enough to trump youth and enthusiasm. Even so, Gillian was clearly slowing down and fighting for breath by the time she faced her last opponent. As much as she tried to hide it. She leaned heavily, if unobtrusively, on Jack’s shoulder as she stood at the edge of the circle, accepting a drink from his water flask.

  “You know,” she said, mopping her face with a handkerchief that Jack provided, “this all used to be a lot easier when I was younger.”

  “What wasn’t?” said Jack. “Look, just beat this last one, and that’ll be thirteen victories in a row. Enough that the stewards will declare you swordswoman champion of the day. Then you can leave the circle and have a nice sit-down, and I’ll find a shawl to put around your shoulders and fetch you your slippers. Won’t that be nice?”

  Gillian glared at him, threw the sweaty handkerchief back in his face, and stormed back into the middle of the circle, sweeping her sword back and forth before her. Jack grinned. He’d always known how to get his sister going. The last contestant shuffled forward, very cautiously, ready for anything. Gillian had him flat on his back in the mud in under a minute, wondering what the hell had just happened. The crowd cheered as the stewards announced Gillian as that day’s champion, and Gillian got the hell out of the circle while her shaking legs would still hold her up. Hawk and Fisher crowded a
round her, telling her how proud they were of her, and half carried her away to the nearest seat. Where she sat slumped for some time, fighting to get her breathing under control and coughing up unpleasant things.

  “You’re seventy-two, for God’s sake,” said Jack. “Woman your age should have more sense.”

  “I can still kick your arse, and don’t you forget it,” said Gillian.

  When she was ready, they all went to stand before the main raked seating so Gillian could be presented to Prince Richard. (It should have been King Rufus, really, but he was asleep. No one said anything.) The Prince congratulated Gillian warmly, said nice things about her excellent reputation at the Sorting House (courtesy of a note someone had slipped into his hand at the last moment), and invited her to enter the Castle after the Tourney, to join the rest of the day’s champions at a banquet in their honour.

  Gillian bowed to the Prince, acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, and then moved away, still leaning heavily on Hawk and Fisher. They hadn’t got far when a tall, slender figure dressed all in black appeared out of nowhere, to block their way.

  “Hello, Mother,” said Raven the Necromancer.

  Gillian straightened up immediately, grabbed Raven firmly by the ear, and hauled him off to one side, to a relatively quiet part of the clearing where they could talk privately. The rest of the family tagged along. They wouldn’t have missed this for the world. They all studied the Necromancer with great interest, and waited for the sparks to fly.

  “What the hell is this Raven nonsense?” demanded Gillian. “I gave you a perfectly good name: Nathanial!”

  “It’s show business, Mother,” Raven said calmly. “No one is going to take you seriously as a Necromancer and a dealer in dark forces with a name like Nathanial.”

  “Well . . . why a bloody Necromancer, anyway?” said Gillian.

  Raven shrugged. “I suppose we all feel the need to rebel against our family background. I just went a little further than most. Speaking of family . . .”

  Gillian reluctantly made the introductions, and Raven bowed to them all. He was careful to be very polite to Jack, in his monk’s robes, and reached down to make a fuss of Chappie. But he was clearly most fascinated with his grandparents, even as they made it very clear to him that they were there only as a Hawk and Fisher.

  “Of course,” said Raven. “I quite understand. Reputations can be such a burden, even though you can’t get anywhere without one. I’m so pleased I finally got to meet you, after all these years . . . Look at the two of you! You’re my grandparents, but you don’t look much older than me! You really must tell me your secret.”

  “Clean living and a vegetable diet . . . are two things I’ve always avoided,” Fisher said solemnly. “I can’t help thinking there’s a connection.”

  “Actually, it involves lots of exposure to Wild Magic, and whole armies of really nasty things trying to kill you,” said Hawk. “I don’t recommend it.”

  “We have met before, Nephew,” said Jack. “Though you were so young you probably don’t remember me.”

  “I’m afraid not, Uncle,” Raven said politely. “But your reputation does of course precede you. Not many Walking Men live long enough to retire. You did so much good, according to all the songs and stories. Why did you give it up?”

  “Because I decided I was doing it for all the wrong reasons,” said Jack. “And you and I are definitely going to have a few words about this dealing with dark forces thing.”

  “Of course, Uncle. Do bear in mind what I said earlier, about show business. Not everything is necessarily what it appears, in the magic game.” He grinned down at Chappie. “I love your dog. Is he a pure breed? Of some kind?”

  “Too bloody right,” growled the dog. “One of a kind, that’s me, and proud of it. And somebody had better lead me to a food stall soon or there’s going to be trouble.”

  “Oh . . . ,” said Raven. “You’re that dog! You know, there’s a lot of stories told about you in the magic community. The High Warlock’s dog . . . The wise dog, who cannot die. How is it you’re still alive, Chappie?”

  “Because he’s too mean to die,” said Hawk briskly. He glared at the dog. “Business first, sausages later.”

  “You never did know how to enjoy yourself,” said Chappie.

  • • •

  They all strolled along, through the Tourney, passing endless stalls and markets and attractions. People gave them even more room than before, now that the notorious Necromancer was walking with them. Chappie kept darting off to nose for fallen food among the stalls, but he always caught up with them. Nobody bothered him either.

  “You know,” Raven said to Hawk and Fisher, “I have to say, you don’t look a bit like your official portraits, either of you. And nothing at all like the official statues set up in your honour.”

  Chappie sniggered loudly. “I really must find the time to piss on them.”

  “Do you want to buy a dog?” Fisher said to Raven. “You can have him cheap.”

  “Really cheap,” said Hawk.

  “You’d be lost without me and you know it,” said the dog complacently.

  They continued on, through the many attractions set up to wring as much money from the crowds as possible and keep their minds occupied during those inevitable times when nothing much was happening. A bored crowd is a dangerous crowd. They might decide to make their own excitement. Hawk found a stall selling meaty, chewy things and bought a whole bunch of them for Chappie, to shut him up. And while he was standing around, trying to pretend the dog at his side making a disgrace of himself was nothing at all to do with him, he happened to spy a sign saying Ride the Unicorn! Hawk drew Fisher’s attention to the sign, and they both regarded it thoughtfully. Hawk drifted in the sign’s general direction, and the others followed after him, keen to see what might occur. The sign led into a small enclosure, where a dwarf in a cut-down bearskin was loudly proclaiming his wares to some mildly interested onlookers.

  “Ride the lovely unicorn! Isn’t he magnificent? Give the children a thrill! Boys, is your sweetheart really true to you? Put her on the unicorn and find out! Fathers, is your daughter all she should be? Put her on the unicorn and set your mind at rest!”

  There were some takers, and an awful lot of giggling, as the dwarf led the unicorn around the small enclosure on a long rope. Hawk looked the unicorn over carefully, waited for a quiet moment, and then approached the unicorn’s owner. The dwarf looked around, and nodded easily. He seemed a cheerful enough sort.

  “Excuse me,” said Hawk.

  “Take your place in the queue, squire; I’ll get to you in a moment. Very popular, the unicorn ride.”

  “It’s just that I can’t help noticing that the white dye job is wearing off in several places,” said Hawk. “And he’s wearing iron shoes instead of silver. And I know for a fact that unicorns have curlicue horns, not straight. What you have there, in fact, is a shire horse painted white with a bit of old bone stuck on his forehead.”

  The dwarf grinned. “Keep your voice down, squire. The Tourney organisers think they’re getting a bargain.”

  And back he went, loudly proclaiming his wares to the eager queue. Hawk nodded slowly and left him to it.

  • • •

  It didn’t take Hawk long to search out the axe-fighting circles. One of the bigger clues was the number of large muscular men being carried off on reinforced stretchers, while healers did their best to apply pressure to gaping wounds. First blood in an axe fight was always going to tend toward the dramatic. The rest of Hawk’s family stood patiently beside him, as he watched big burly men with all kinds of axes going at one another with great gusto. There was much howling of battle cries, staggering back and forth in the blood-soaked mud of the circle, and men grunting explosively with the effort of their exertions. The stewards had given up trying to wash the blood out of the circle and stood casually to one side, chatting easily and completely ignoring the fights, until a sudden heartfelt scream announced another l
oser, and winner. Hawk grinned.

  “That’ll do me,” he said briskly.

  “Are you sure about this, Father?” said Gillian. “Some of those contestants are so big I’m not sure they technically qualify as people. That last one looked like someone had shaved a bear and then strapped an axe to his paw.”

  “Trust me,” said Fisher, “your father’s taken down a lot bigger, in his time.”

  “I shall pray for you, Father,” said Jack.

  “Stand well back,” Hawk said cheerfully. “You don’t want to get blood and gore all over you.”

  “Give them hell, Father,” said Gillian.

  Hawk strode into the circle, and the supernaturally bright sheen to his axe head immediately drew everyone’s attention. Hawk announced his name loudly, and there was an instant loud buzz from the watching crowd. The stewards stood up straight, conversed briefly but animatedly with one another, and then the bravest one came forward to bow very formally.

  “Pardon me, sir Hawk, but . . . given your name, and that entirely disquieting axe you’re carrying, might you by any chance be . . . ?”

  “Yes,” said Hawk. “I used to run the Hero Academy. That’s my wife, Fisher, over there, looking beautiful and exceedingly dangerous, as always. You have any objections to my taking part in this Tourney?”

  “Me? No!” said the steward quickly. “Honoured to have you here!” He turned away, got out of the circle as fast as he could, and addressed the crowd. “My friends, allow me to present to you a real hero! A Hawk, from the Hero Academy, has chosen to honour us with his presence today! Give the man a big hand!”