Clebbster was shaking with rage. “You cannot prove it wasn’t your man, not mine.”
“I can prove it,” Messina called back. “You stand closer and call the death curse both backwards and forwards, and you’ll see the same result. My knight was King Henry V of England, and has no magic of any type at his fingers.”
Collapsing backwards onto his make-shift throne, Clebbster said nothing more. One of his sons, the twin standing at his back, leaned down and spoke quietly to him. Clebbster nodded, rubbing the handle of his walking cane.
The third and final joust was called.
Zakmeister had been waiting for some time, quietly sitting in his tent with his head in his hands. He did not fear what was about to happen. But he doubted Clebbster’s willingness to accept the result.
Ninester ran in, having acted as squire to Henry V, and eager to take some of the success for himself. “I did up his helm, I did,” he smiled widely, “and it didn’t fall off, did it. So you want me to do up your armour?”
Zakmeister shook his head. “Bayldon has been with me throughout.” He said. “I need no one else. Go out with Granny, sit with her and watch the spectacle.”
Running off, Ninester left the tent flap open, and Zakmeister rose slowly, nodded to Bayldon, and they walked together across to the pens of Llamas. His own allotted mount was brought to him, and he patted the soft woolly neck, saying softly, “Don’t throw me, my friend, and I shall feed you well on the way back at the end.” Then he turned to the smiling grooms. “I want no saddle,” he said, “nor stirrups nor spurs. Just a strong undecorated bridal, and a hard unripe apple.”
“Are you hungry, my lord?” asked one of the grooms, a little puzzled.
Zakmeister laughed, and led his llama to the mounting block. She was a large beast with silvery wool, long legs and a strong neck. With Bayldon’s help, he mounted, shifted into a comfortable position, and rode off. As he neared the lists, he leaned forwards and gave the apple to the llama. She took it with a slurp and chewed with pleasure. The juice dripped from the open mouth as the llama lips slobbered. “Now,” said Zakmeister, “We are both happy, my friend, and will work together.”
Bayldon remained by the llama pens, watching Zakmeister, the last of the three challenges. The Octobrs had won the first two and would automatically win the entire tournament unless a tragedy occurred, and Zakmeister was killed outright. Bayldon turned away, refusing to think on such an ending. No one yet knew who the Hazlett adversary would be. “Some past emperor, no doubt.” Bayldon muttered, and none of us will know him.”
But this was not what happened.
As Zakmeister rode into the lists, on the opposite side rose his opponent, undoubtedly one of the later Hazletts since he was tall and very thin. Clad in black metal armour, he seemed threatening but unrecognisable. Strands of long black greasy hair poked down beneath the helm, and his visor was open, showing two brilliant green eyes, but nothing more. They faced each other, raised their lances, and introduced themselves.
“I am Zakmeister,” he said. “Only serving son of Cortains and Alibaster, of the ancient clan of Tyrells. I challenge you to single combat in the name of the Octobr emperors.”
Then the other spoke. His voice was immediately familiar. “I am Wagster Hazlett, son of Clebbster Hazlett, Emperor of Lashtang, Sparkan, and the Meteors of Fracass. I accept your challenge.”
From the benches, Poppy had stood, dismayed. “Is that Brewster?” she called. “He can’t fight against us.”
Messina pulled on her arm. “No, my dear, it is Wagster. But I fear it may be Yaark, in which case our dearest Zakmeister may die.”
Poppy sniffed. “I can’t see Brewster. Is he here?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him,” Messina said. “And what those evil wizards do is no longer important, as long as they do not win.”
Even if they lose,” snorted Tryppa from beside them, “I doubt they’ll accept it as failure.”
Both men turned, riding back to the start of the lists. Then, with a sudden start like thunder, they tucked their lances beneath their arms, pointing them straight ahead, and galloped directly towards each other. They met with a crash of metal against metal and a howl from Wagster’s llama. Zakmeister had knocked the lance aside, but it was not dropped and Wagster readjusted, riding on.
The second clash finished in the same way and they rode past, turning at the end of the lists to face each other again. Now their squires ran up to take the lances, and hand up the fighters’ swords. Wagster’s was curved like a scimitar, but Zakmeister used a long double-edged weapon, which he held upright as he thundered down the grass strip beside the wooden divider. But as he came within striking distance of Wagster, he slipped sideways, sliding from the llama’s back but keeping safe with both his feet interlocked beneath her belly, and his hands gripping the bridle. With nothing to aim at, Wagster spun around, staring and confused, and slashed down with his sword into empty air.
Sitting up and righting himself, Zakmeister once again rode on, leaving Wagster seething with anger. They turned and faced each other again. This time the gallop forwards was at tremendous speed, their swords flashing in the sunlight, and the llamas spitting at each other. But with another sideways slip from the llama’s back, but this time on the other side, Zakmeister seemed to disappear, but within a minute had reappeared, catching Wagster utterly by surprise. With a massive blow, Zakmeister slashed Wagster’s scimitar from his hand. It flew into the air, reflecting sunbeams as everyone on the Hazletts benched stood, open-mouthed and gasping.
Wagster sat a moment, staring. He saw his sword spin and fall at some distance. He could not retrieve it.
The second tilt was declared un unarguable win for the Octobrs, whereas the first tilt had been a draw.
One left.
And this was to be with the battle axe, hammer one side and sword edge on the other. Given their new weapons by their squires, they sat, waiting. Bayldon whispered up, “Well done, Zak. That was a skilled fight.”
Zakmeister held his axe in one hand, making sure his grip was tight but flexible, his arm hanging at his side as he held the reins with his other. Wagster did exactly the same as they rose forwards. Yet as they neared, Wagster raised his axe to one side, while Zakmeister, keeping a close grip on the reins, speaking softly to the llama, climbed carefully and then stood, knees a little bent, on the animal’s back with his axe above his head. Wagster stared up in amazement. His own plan became instantly impossible, with his opponent standing high above him.
Zakmeister began to swing the axe. He swirled it three times over his head, and then, with a click, he let it go. At the same time he bounced down, once more sitting on the llama’s back. The llama cantered on.
But the axe, from its three spiral swirls which had seemed to sweep the sky, had flow, full tilt, directly at Wagster’s open-mouthed gaze, hitting him with tremendous force between the eyes. His helm split apart, the visor broken. Blood spurted out.
For one moment Wagster toppled loosely in his saddle, and then slowly slid from the animal’s back and with a clank of armour, fell heavily to the ground.
There was a sudden silence and everyone on both sides simply gasped.
But then, with a high pitched screech, Brewster Hazlett rushed from the back of the Hazlett benches, and raced to his brother’s side. He bent over the prone body on the grass, and tenderly began to unbuckled his helm and armour. He was crying and made no attempt to control himself, sobbing loudly as he gazed into his dead twin’s battered face. Then he laid his head down on Wagster’s chest, and continued to weep.
Nobody interrupted for a long time.
Zakmeister, now peacefully astride his llama and leaning down to stroke the front of her neck, watched from a distance, but eventually dismounted and walked forwards. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, “not for having killed a man I considered evil, but for having distressed you, since you have declared yourself a friend in the past.”
Without
answering, Brewster kissed his twin brother’s blood-soaked forehead. Zakmeister slowly walked away. A quiet voice declared the Octobr side the outright winner, and then was silent. And then, unseen by most but clearly seen by some, a pale pink star, with a flicker of light, emerged from the cracked skull and sprang up into the air, where it disappeared amongst the clouds.
Brewster saw it and sighed. Messina saw, and clutched Tryppa’s hand. Poppy saw it, and jumped up, running down the grassy strip to the lists where Brewster still bent over his brother’s body.
Clebbster was shouting. First at Brewster and then at some of the young squires, telling them to drag the body off, and return to argue the result. “My boy was slaughtered with a brutal blow outside the lists,” he called to Messina. “You cheated. I refute the result.”
“I expected that,” sighed Granny. “But I’ve seen enough. I shall go home.”
Messina shook her head. “I’ll wait for Bayldon.”
Now Poppy was kneeling on the grass at Brewster’s side, her hand gently on his arm. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Truly, I am.” She had never seen anyone dead like this before, and felt like crying too, even though she had hated Wagster.
Brewster looked up at her. His green eyes were blurred with tears. He whispered, “Thank you, friend. But my brother was a fool, and the result was fair. Indeed, I’ll say this to no one else, but my beloved brother cheated. He willingly carried Oshlik, the pink star, which gave him great strength and courage, cunning and confidence. But your man fought far better. I cannot deny it. Wagster deserved to lose. He deserved to die” He once again laid his head down on Wagster’s cheek. “But I loved my brother very much.”
At last he stood, and ignoring his father, helped carry his brother gently from the field, and into one of the tents behind the benches. The llama had galloped off, and a couple of the young squires had run after it. Meanwhile it was not only Brewster, one of the past Hazlett leaders and two squires that carried Wagster from the scene, but also Sherdam. He walked forwards from the Octobr side, and joined the slow procession beside Brewster, silently helping.
Poppy wandered back to join her family, and looked sadly at Nathan. “Must be horrible for Brewster,” she said, looking at her brother. “Just imagine if you’d died.”
“Must be worse, being twins,” said Alice.
Bayldon and Zakmeister trudged out from the tents, making their way over to the benches. Watching the young squires, Zakmeister stopped suddenly and said, “My clan has almost died out, you know. I rarely see anyone dark skinned like myself, but six of the boy squires have my deep brown skin. I should like to speak to them and find where they come from. I should also like to speak to Brewster. I understand his sorrow. I considered my brother wicked, but I was still sad when I saw him killed.”
Nodding, Bayldon said, “Stay. Speak to everyone you wish. But I’m taking Messina home. When you return, soon I hope, you’ll be greeted with a celebration. You’ve been a great warrior, my friend, and won the joust outright.”
Standing, pushing back the benches, the spectators gradually left the scene. Brewster was no longer to be seen, but Sherdam returned and took Granny’s arm. Within a minute, every one of them, having waved to their supporters standing behind and speaking to some of the closer friends, raised their arms to the sky and disappeared.
Walking over to the Hazlett tents, Zakmeister discovered very little of what he had hoped. Brewster had disappeared, so had every one of the past wizards, and even Wagster’s body had gone. He searched each tent, but all the young squires had also left with no indication of where they had gone. Even the llamas had been led away.
The only creatures remaining were himself, and a line of crows sitting on the wooden barriers in the centre of the field. Zakmeister asked one, “Where have the dark-skinned boys gone? Did you see them?”
But the crows only squawked. Then their leader bent his head. “We have been watching,” said the crow. “But not for squires. We have been watching for anyone who tries to start the war behind the lines.”
Zakmeister raised his arms, and with one muttered word, he went home.
Chapter Seventeen
Zakmeister was cheered, feasted, clapped, and called the greatest hero alongside Henry V and Henry VIII. Zakmeister was tired, but he was impressed when Richard III told him how much original skill he had shown with the axe. Praise from an expert was always the best to receive. The cottage was alight with winter flowers, a roaring fire in every room, and plenty of lamps shining with the new electrical forces which they had all helped introduce. The smells of cake, fresh bread and roast meats floated in from the kitchen, but this time Granny wasn’t cooking. It was all produced by magic and tasted almost as good. Jellywop was trying to find enough plates.
“They cheated, but I don’t care,” Zakmeister informed Granny and Sherdam. “I beat the fool. I simply wished I had been able to kill the star at the same time.”
“He got out in time, just as Wagster was falling but not quite gone,” sighed Sherdam. “But it wasn’t Yaark. We know nothing about this pink star.”
“But Yaark is still out there.”
“And “Oshlik,” said Granny. “nowhere near as vile as Yaark, it seems, or the others.”
Alice was dancing with Henry VIII. Peter was playing the music, and Lady Tryppa joined in. From the early quietness and worry, now everyone was singing, chatting and laughing. Very soon they were eating, crowded around the kitchen table. It was here that Granny stood suddenly, tapping the back of her spoon on the wooden table.
“Now,” she announced, “I have every expectation of Clebbster attempting to attack. He knows full well that we won the tournament in all honesty, but he will refuse to admit it. Therefore he only has one way of fighting back – and that’s a full-scale charge He’s got quite a few men and can pay mercenaries as well, as I’m sure he intends. He has to do it before we announce our victory to the land.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Messina.
“We can’t really manage a huge attack at this stage,” Granny said. “At least, it would be horrible for the whole of Lashtang, and many would be killed on both sides. So I am going to visit Clebbster and point out that although we are the victors already, since we won every round at the tournament, except one which was a draw – and indeed it was them who cheated since we saw the pink star. But since Wagster died, I won’t press that. They’d never admit it anyway. So I’m going to challenge the vile creature to a trial by magic. Him – and I.”
Messina, startled, jumped up. “I thought to do that myself. I have, I believe, the strongest magic of anyone alive in this world, except perhaps Clebbster himself.”
But Granny shook her head. “You are the Empress. You cannot risk your life. Should Clebbster win, you have to be alive to make the next move. Besides, my dear,” and here she smiled, “I’m not too sure your magic is stronger than mine.”
Nathan stood up as Messina opened her mouth to argue. “I think we should start another muster,’ he said, looking around at everyone. “We can all gather at Bymion. There’s plenty of empty houses. Anyone and everyone who supports us should be close by and all together. We might have to organise them into troops and leaders and so on, and start planning a major battle. All the Epilogs are nearby and we should get them here before they wander off home. We can gather up the people of Peganda, and the folk of the farms and plains. The fishing villages, and all the little towns. Then there’s the trees. The birds. The folk of Sparkan. Even those from the meteors.”
“And a quick trip down to Sicily to bring back those useful brigands,” said Alfie.
“All them Quosters,” added John. “Reckon there be a mass o’ them serpents will fight wiv us.”
“The dragons and the lava wolves,” said Peter, who had stopped playing music and was now more interested in the dinner he could smell. “Even some whooshabouts.”
“Llamas.”
“Birds.”
“You said them be
fore.”
“The ladder?”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Will they all fit in Bymion? I don’t think they will.”
“Reckon we ortta build them tents again,” said John. “Easy, weren’t it? Magic, bang, and up come all them thousand mighty tents.”
“I entirely agree,” said Granny with a beaming smile. “Now, let me think. This will be a huge and most important muster. I believe Poppy, Peter and Tryppa should go to Sparkan and rally everyone they can, including the Quosters. Your glorious and magical music will muster as many as you wish.”
“Where’s Hermes these days?” asked Bayldon. “It’s a long time since I saw him. He can’t still be shopping at the market.”
Alice put her hand over her mouth with a gulp. “Back at my house. We asked him to go back there after he flew us to Lashtang".”
“Right,” said Alfie. “We go back to England. We get Hermes and the brigands from Sicily.”
“If you ride a goose over the Italian states,” sighed Zakmeister, “they’ll shoot you. I hate to think of Hermes with an arrow in his neck.”
“We’ll fly higher,” promised Alice. “Or get Hermes to call the ladder.”
“And where’s Jassle?” asked Sam. “There was Ventos and Umbod and others too. They can help with the muster, if we can find them at all.”
“All at Peganda,” answered Messina, “and all easy to call.”
“But who goes to the meteor?” asked Nathan.
“Oh, what an interesting idea,” said Zakmeister. “How about you, Nat, along with Sam and myself? It should take two days at the most.”
“I intend visiting Clebbster with only one other person for basic protection,” said Granny. “And I choose Sherdam.”
“And I choose you,” smiled Sherdam.
“Well,” sighed Messina, “we seem to be organised into the usual state of chaos. Let’s go into the kitchen and make a sensible list of who goes where, and how long we expect that to take. Within a week, I hope.”
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