The crowd responded with a polite but frankly rather lukewarm round of applause. Anyone could claim a big name and a big reputation, their faces seemed to suggest. Show us something. Hawk smiled easily about him, sweeping his heavy axe back and forth before him as though it were nothing. The blood-soaked mud squelched loudly under his boots as he surreptitiously dug his feet in, for a better purchase. A large northern barbarian stepped into the circle to face him: easily a head taller, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, wearing just a loincloth and furred boots, the better to show off his appallingly developed physique. Hawk nodded amiably to his opponent. The barbarian just growled back at him, from deep in his throat. And then he surged forward, horribly quickly for someone of his size and bulk, his massive axe whistling through the air, without waiting for the steward to start things. But Hawk had been expecting that. He stepped quickly forward, ducked under the wildly sweeping axe, and slammed his own axe head deep into the barbarian’s exposed hip. The steel blade juddered on the bone, with a loud chunking sound the whole audience could hear. The barbarian was brought to a sudden halt, his eyes wide with pain and shock. Hawk jerked his axe out and stepped back. Blood jetted on the air, until the barbarian clapped one huge hand across it. Hawk looked steadily at his opponent.
“First blood.”
The crowd cheered and applauded loudly. This was more like it. Maybe this Hawk really was who he said he was, after all. And then the crowd’s applause died away, as they realised the barbarian hadn’t left the circle. He was still standing his ground, blood seeping thickly through the fingers of the hand covering the great wound on his hip. He still held his axe in his other hand, and his dark, deep-set eyes blazed with bitter fury. He raised his axe suddenly and threw it at Hawk, the huge blade tumbling end over end as it flew through the air. But Hawk was no longer standing where he had been. He’d known what the barbarian was going to do before the man did it, reading the barbarian’s intentions in his tensing muscles. By the time the flying axe flashed through the space where he’d been, Hawk was right there in front of the startled barbarian. He brought his axe up and down with brutal speed and strength, and buried the heavy axe head in the barbarian’s shoulder, right beside the neck. It smashed through the collarbone and drove the barbarian to his knees through sheer impact. The barbarian cried out once, in shock and pain, and blood sprayed from his mouth. Hawk jerked the axe free, like a woodsman yanking his blade out of a tree trunk, and blood sprayed everywhere. The barbarian fell forward, onto all fours, his hands pressed deep into the crimson mud. Hawk brought his axe sweeping down, with all his strength behind it, and cut off the barbarian’s head. It bounced and rolled across the ground like a football, ending up at the feet of the watching crowd, who shrieked happily. The headless body collapsed and lay still.
The steward loudly proclaimed Hawk’s victory, while two of his fellows hurried forward to drag the body out of the circle. Getting the head back from the crowd took somewhat longer. Hawk strolled back to join his family. Fisher grinned, Gillian shook her head slowly, and Jack looked at him steadily.
“Was that really necessary, Father?”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “Break the rules once, and I’ll give you a second chance. Piss me off a second time and you’re a dead man.”
“Age has not mellowed you,” said Fisher.
“And aren’t you grateful?” said Hawk.
“You were right,” said Gillian, still a little dazed at what she’d seen. “Only a fool turns his back on a cheat.”
“Not actually the biggest man I’ve ever seen you kill,” said Fisher. “But bloody close.”
“Size isn’t everything,” said Hawk.
He strode back into the circle, shaking drops of blood from his axe head. He smiled at the new opponent facing him. “First blood?”
“Oh, I think so,” said his new opponent quickly.
Hawk took on twelve opponents, in swift succession. Some were stronger, some were swifter, a few were even more skilled, but none of them were as strong and as fast and as skilled as Hawk. Or had his experience. Hawk had fought men and demons in his time, in duels and skirmishes, battles and wars. He wasn’t unbeatable, but there was no one at the Tourney who even came close. The crowd around the circle grew steadily thicker, as he beat men up and chopped them down, and didn’t even raise a decent sweat. He didn’t have to kill anyone else. Some of them even walked out of the circle, glad to still be alive. As the news spread, people came running from all over the Tourney to see what was happening. They’d never seen anything like Hawk before. They cheered and applauded and stamped their feet as the steward announced Hawk champion axeman of the day.
Fisher sniffed loudly as Hawk left the circle to the roar of the madly applauding throng. She insisted on leading the family off to the next fighting circle, where she wasted no time in announcing herself as Fisher of the Hero Academy. She stepped into the circle, swept her sword before her, and loudly declared herself ready to take on all comers. A large crowd had followed her. They pressed together several ranks deep around the circle, smiling widely in anticipation. More people were hurrying forward, from all around. The news was spreading. Hawk and Fisher were here.
A hell of a lot of swordsmen came forward to challenge Fisher. Only two champion swordspeople were ever allowed on the day of Tourney, and with the first already awarded to Gillian by Prince Richard, defeating Fisher was their only chance to qualify. And they hadn’t come all this way to be put off by a legendary name. There was a certain amount of scuffling in the queue, as the various swordsmen sorted out the right pecking order, and then the first man stepped into the circle to face Fisher. A tall, heavily built fellow in well-used chain mail, he looked like he knew his business. Fisher grinned, and went forward to meet him.
Clearly an ex-soldier, with many scars, he towered over Fisher. He didn’t make the mistake of underestimating her. He edged forward, cautiously, ready for an extended bout of swordsmanship. Fisher just slammed right into him and drove him back with an intimidatingly fierce display of speed and savagery. She drove him this way and that, making it look easy, and then beat the sword right out of his hand. The ex-soldier just stood there for a moment, blinking, and looking at his sword lying on the ground. And then he decided to get the hell out of the circle while he still could. It wasn’t, technically speaking, first blood, but he knew he was lucky to be walking away with all his fingers still attached. Several quite experienced swordsmen waiting in the queue decided they wouldn’t bother after all.
There were still plenty of hard-faced swordsmen and -women who were more than ready to have a go. Fisher took them all down, quickly and efficiently, always stepping back at first blood, if only so she didn’t get any on her. The crowd loved her, shouting her name over and over. They were packed so deep round the circle now that those at the back were having to stand on benches to see what was happening. Hawk beamed fondly on Fisher, always proud to see her taking on the world and winning.
The thirteenth fighter shouldered everyone else out of his way, and strode into the fighting circle. Fisher looked him over, and immediately decided this was one to take very seriously. He was only average height and weight, lithely muscular in an athletic way. But he moved with a graceful and economical style that marked him immediately for what he was. He stood poised before Fisher, studying her with cold, unblinking eyes; and he didn’t bow.
“So, you’re one of the trainers from the Hero Academy,” he said, in a flat, cold voice. “Mongrels. Troublemakers. Too proud to show the proper obedience to your proper masters. Too arrogant to bow down to the Brotherhood of Steel. It’s time you upstarts were taught a lesson in real swordsmanship, by a properly trained fighter. I am a Bladesmaster, thanks to the Brotherhood—unbeatable with a sword in my hand. Defend yourself, bitch.”
“Oh, he really shouldn’t have said that last bit,” murmured Hawk.
The Bladesmaster advanced steadily on Fisher in a practiced swordsman’s stance. Fisher smiled, and just st
ood there and let him come to her. And then she lifted her sword and threw it at him, with all her strength. The blade flashed through the air, incredibly fast, and the Bladesmaster didn’t even have a chance to get his own sword up to block it. Fisher’s sword punched right through his throat, and out the back of his neck, in a welter of blood. The Bladesmaster fell back a step, his eyes wide with horror. He opened his mouth to say something, but only blood came out. He fell to his knees. His sword dropped from his hand. His eyes slowly closed, as the blood pumped out of his throat. Fisher walked forward to stand before him, took hold of the sword hilt standing out before her, and pulled the blade out of his neck with one easy movement, stepping aside at the last moment, to avoid the last of the jetting blood. The Bladesmaster fell forward onto his face, in the crimson mud, and didn’t move again. The crowd went mad, cheering and clapping and shouting her name. Fisher saluted them once with her sword and strolled back to join Hawk, who shook his head regretfully.
“You’re going to be unbearable about this for days, aren’t you?”
“How well you know me,” said Fisher.
• • •
This time, it was Hawk and Fisher’s turn to stand before Prince Richard. He recognised their names, and the implications, immediately, and went out of his way to say many fine things about the Hero Academy before naming them both champions of the Tourney and inviting them into the Castle to join the celebration banquet. And then he looked thoughtfully at Hawk and Fisher, and for a moment it seemed as though he might be about to say something. But he didn’t. He bowed respectfully to Hawk and Fisher, and they bowed formally back, and went back to their family.
“I’m starting to feel a bit left out,” said Jack. “I won’t fight with a sword or an axe, or any other weapon. I don’t do that anymore. But I have thought of something . . .”
He led his family through the excited crowds, many of them applauding loudly as they passed. A few came forward to beg favours or coins, or just to touch their clothes, but a cold look from Hawk or Fisher was all it took to put a stop to that. Jack finally brought them to the magic circles, where various sorcerous duels and contests took place for the edification, delight, and bafflement of the watching audiences. Such duels tended to be loud and flashy affairs, and not always that easy for the inexperienced or uninitiated to follow. Jack walked straight up to the nearest steward, and was just a little disappointed that the man didn’t immediately recognise his name, or who he used to be.
“What’s your speciality?” said the steward briskly. “Elemental magic? Transformations? Plagues and curses?”
“Invulnerability,” Jack said firmly. “There’s not a magic here that can touch me.”
“Best of luck with that one,” said the steward. “You sure about this? Things can get pretty rough inside the circle . . . All right, all right. Next of kin for the form, please.”
But in the end, Jack just stood there in the middle of the magic circle and defied anyone to move him. They all came forward—the magicians and sorcerers, the hedge wizards and witches—resplendent in their brightly coloured robes and tall, pointy hats. They blasted Jack with spells, curses, and even bolts of lightning, and couldn’t get anywhere near him. Jack spoke no spells, chanted no cantrips; he just stood his ground. An old monk, leaning on a wooden staff, smiling amiably into the teeth of whatever they could throw at him. One after another, dark-eyed sorcerers filled the air with blistering energies; sloe-eyed witches all but broke their brooms in half trying to turn him into things; and wild-eyed hedge wizards called down all the wilder weathers of the four seasons. To no effect. Because, although none of them knew it, nothing could touch the retired Walking Man, as long as he walked in Heaven’s path. Though Jack would have been the first to admit he was stretching that just a bit. Still, as long as he was doing it in a good cause . . .
In the end, he stood alone and unhurt in the middle of a circle that had been blasted down to the bedrock and charred around the edges, and thirteen powerful magic-users had to admit they’d done their worst and not even knocked him off balance. They retired from the field, baffled, and more than a little hurt. The steward declared Jack champion magic-user of the day, and the watching audience applauded him in a respectful sort of way. Jack went on to bow deeply before an equally baffled Prince Richard, who shrugged and invited him to the Castle banquet anyway.
“I’m ashamed of you, Jack,” Hawk said afterwards. “Cheating your way to a prize like that.”
“I prefer to call it lateral thinking,” said Jack. “I’ve always believed in outthinking one’s enemy.”
“He didn’t get that from me,” said Fisher.
• • •
They continued on through the Tourney to see what else it had to offer, while Chappie led them unerringly from one food stall to another, where he insisted they try a little bit of everything. While he tried a great deal of everything.
“Now I know why you’ve lived so long,” said Raven. “It’s because you never stop eating.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” said Chappie indistinctly.
Hawk and Fisher made it a point of pride to try some of the more exotic dishes on offer. Spiced sausage, curried bean soup, and sweet crunchy things that came in a paper cone. All the family tried a bit of this and that, except Jack, who turned up his nose at everything.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff. You must have cast-iron stomachs.”
“If you can eat the kind of stuff they sell at Haven’s street stalls, you can eat anything,” said Fisher.
“True,” said Hawk. “I do miss that something-wriggling-on-a-stick they used to sell down by the docks. Never did find out what it was.”
“Probably just as well,” said Fisher wisely. She looked at Gillian. “Did they still sell that when you were down there?”
“Hell, yes,” said Gillian, shuddering. “I could never eat them. Couldn’t stand the way they looked at me.”
“Then you should have eaten them from the other end,” Fisher said ruthlessly.
“My family are barbarians,” said Raven. Chappie sniggered.
“I haven’t seen my daughter, Mercy, anywhere,” said Jack. “I was sure she’d be here.”
“Oh, my cousin is quite definitely here today,” said Raven. “You’d better come with me, Uncle.”
He led the family through the packed crowds, to the jousting lane, where the Sombre Warrior and the masked Sir Kay were seated on their great chargers at opposite ends of the long grassy lane. Studying each other, through their featureless steel helmets. Young women pressed forward to throw showers of rose petals over both men. Raven brought his family right to the front and made sure they all had a good view. (Mostly just by smiling at people in the way in a thoughtful fashion until they decided not to be in the way any longer. No one crowds a Necromancer.)
The Sombre Warrior and Sir Kay started forward, the steward raised his voice and brought his flag sweeping down, and just like that the two knights were off, racing down the narrow lane towards each other, urging their horses on, lances standing proudly out before them. The horses pounded on for all they were worth, their hooves digging great divots out of the wet earth and throwing them aside, while Sir Kay and the Sombre Warrior hung on grimly, and the crowd went completely out of their minds with excitement. The two men rapidly closed the gap between them. Everyone was on their feet, shouting and waving, including Prince Richard and Princess Catherine, each cheering for the respective countryman. The two horses came together, both lances struck home, snapped and splintered and broken in half by the impact . . . but the Sombre Warrior stayed put in his saddle, while Sir Kay was thrown backwards off his horse and crashed to the hard ground.
The whole crowd went suddenly silent. The Sombre Warrior reined in his horse, turned it around, and looked back to see what had happened to his opponent. A steward ran out into the lane, to grab the reins of the riderless horse. Sir Kay lay flat on his back in the churned-up earth. And then, slo
wly and painfully, he rolled over onto his side, and forced himself up onto his knees, and then onto his feet. He saluted the Sombre Warrior at the other end, and the crowd went mad all over again, howling and screaming, stamping their feet and pounding their hands together till it hurt. Some people wanted to run forward into the lane, to congratulate both men, but there were enough armed guards on hand to make it clear that would be a really bad idea.
The Sombre Warrior respectfully dipped his lance, with the Princess’ favour still wrapped around it. Sir Kay nodded his appreciation, and then walked slowly but steadily forward to stand before Prince Richard and Princess Catherine. He bowed once, just a bit jerkily, and then raised both his hands to place them on either side of his helmet. The crowd was utterly still, absolutely silent. Tension on the air was so thick you could have sliced it with a knife. Without realising it, everyone was leaning forward. Sir Kay took off his helmet with one smooth motion, and long golden hair tumbled out, to surround a young woman’s face. She smiled brilliantly around her. As one, the crowd turned to look at the Sombre Warrior, to see how he would take it, that he’s come so close to being unseated and unmasked by a mere slip of a girl. The Sombre Warrior sat very still for a long moment, and then he bowed to Sir Kay.
The crowd loved it. They went completely off their heads, laughing and cheering and hugging one another with joy, jumping up and down and dancing in the enclosed sections. The greatest jest of the whole Tourney, and they’d been there to see it! They’d be telling this story to their friends and neighbours, their children and their grandchildren, for the rest of their lives. Sir Kay smiled demurely up at Prince Richard and Princess Catherine, curtsied as best she could in full armour, and then turned and walked off in search of the hospital tents.
Jack looked at Raven.
Once In a Blue Moon Page 39