The crowd uttered a collective gasp, holding its breath until Alcyonne managed to regain his balance and right himself upon his horse’s bare back at the rail’s far end. Everyone present noted the Ember Breath knight’s intent to behead his opponent.
Governed by few rules, jousting combatants followed an unwritten code of ethics. Intentionally targeting the head was frowned upon. Headshots occurred from time to time, but customarily, the knight delivering them found himself run out of the tournament if the blow was deemed anything but accidental.
Alcyonne slowed his mount, rounding the northern end of the tilting rail, readying himself for his second pass.
“Go, Alcyonne,” Javen called out. “Take him out.”
Alcyonne averted his gaze from the business at hand long enough to afford Javen a quick, ‘watch this,’ wink.
Both riders stopped their mounts before their opponent’s staging area, and looked to the king.
The king stood, nodded to both riders, who in turn nodded back, indicating they were good to carry on. With a chopping motion, King Peter signaled the second pass.
Javen pulled the tent flaps together, reopening them when the churned turf ceased pelting the canvas. His eyes adjusted in time to see Alcyonne’s receding posterior erect upon his mottled steed.
The charging Ember Breath knight leaned over his mount’s neck, lance tip wavering at shoulder height.
Javen gritted his teeth, clenching the tent fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. His mind screamed at Alcyonne, ‘get down!’
A hush fell over the crowd, many echoing Javen’s thoughts.
Instead of dropping his lance to his side as he neared his competitor, the Ember Breath knight lodged the hilt into a seam in his saddle, anchoring it. Keeping the tip up, he watched for the opportunity to slip his spiked coronal above his opponent’s guard so he could tear the burnt man’s head off.
Bracing for impact, the Ember Breath knight’s lance tip zipped harmlessly overhead.
Alcyonne’s low riding coronal found its way between the plates of his opponent’s thigh armour, burying itself into the knight’s quadriceps, lodging deep within the man’s flesh. The collision was so intense the offending lance pulled the knight’s femur free of its socket, shattering his hip bone, as well as the lance, with a resounding crack.
The angry knight was shocked when his opponent’s lance ripped into his groin—the pain so acute he was unable to scream. The sound of splintering wood and the whinny of his rearing horse were all that he heard as the brute force of the shattering lance turned him violently in his saddle—the broken shaft refusing to release its hold upon the gory wound it had opened within him.
He toppled from his flailing steed with a length of jagged wood protruding between the folds of plate armour covering his thigh. The last thing he remembered as he fell from his saddle was his back impacting the tilting rail, bouncing him like a rag doll to the jousting field below.
The bedlam in the crowd died off at the realization of the dire spectacle unfolding before them.
Javen winced as the knight fell spine first onto the tilting rail, the unmistakable sound of the man’s spine breaking, horrific.
The Ember Breath knight thudded lifeless to the pitch.
Alcyonne watched helplessly as his lance found its mark and went to work, appalled at the ensuing ramifications of his premeditated strike. Releasing his broken lance and without regard to his own welfare, he leapt free of his running mount. Landing briefly on his feet, his momentum caused him to tumble head over heels and roll sideways several times.
His body hadn’t stopped careening before he was on his feet, dirt stuck to his sweaty skin. Sprinting back to the impact site, he slipped under the tilting rail in one fluid motion and slid to the broken knight’s side before anyone else had time to react.
By the time the fallen knight’s retainers reached them, Alcyonne had removed the man’s cherry-red surcoat, using it to staunch the incredible blood loss evidenced beneath the stricken competitor.
A burly man sporting a well-kempt goatee dropped to his knees, shouldering Alcyonne out of the way, making no attempt to acknowledge the aid the Aldebaranite had initiated.
Alcyonne considered the man without a trace of malice.
Another man from Ember Breath ran up, yelling, “Shove off, darky, haven’t you done enough damage already?”
Alcyonne looked at the ground, saddened. He couldn’t understand the man’s words but he surely understood their tone. Head hung low, he walked slowly down the tilting rail to gather his mottled steed, the shabby horse held by two of the Millsford stable hands working the grounds.
The crowd fell deathly quiet during the aftermath of the collision, but as Alcyonne led his horse toward the royal box, people started to chant, slowly at first, and building in crescendo as he neared the king, “Aldebaran. Aldebaran.”
Standing before the king, a groom rushed over to Alcyonne, handing him the remains of his shattered lance.
Alcyonne accepted the lance with a slight nod. Lance in one hand and reins in his other, he dropped to his knees, lowering his chest to the ground, his hands stretched out before him in respect.
The two rigid knights standing guard on either side of the king’s box kept a close eye on the man’s strange behaviour.
All the while the chant sounded, “Aldebaran. Aldebaran.”
King Peter regarded the prostrate warrior for long moments, letting the respectful cadence from the crowd wash over the field.
The crowd ceased its cadence when the king stood to speak.
“Though I doubt you understand the words I speak, I shall speak to you so that the people gathered here may bear witness.”
The king motioned with upturned palms for Alcyonne to rise.
The groom who handed Alcyonne his lance was walking away, but he noticed the man’s hesitation. He walked back and reached down, gently pulling on the dark man’s arm.
Alcyonne took the cue. Getting to his feet, he regarded the king with solemn reverence.
“You need not lower yourself to me, noble warrior from Aldebaran. The way you conduct yourself sets you above the morality of most contestants. The respect and courtesy you afforded your opponent, though he goaded, taunted, mocked and disrespected you, speaks volumes to your character. Arise Alcyonne. Accept your victory ribbon.”
Alcyonne bowed deeply, adjusting the lance in his grip so he could offer the king the hilt; his bare right hand wrapped around the sharp wreckage of the lance’s shaft. The ruined tip, bloodied and dirty, bearing his earlier ribbons, lay discarded beside the fallen knight.
King Peter nodded his appreciation of the gesture and tied a small vermillion strip of cloth onto the lance’s well-worn grip.
Alcyonne bowed deeply a second time and then spoke with a solemn, courtly voice that only the people near the king’s box could hear, though no one understood.
The king replied, “I know not what you said.” Glancing over his shoulder, he said under his breath to Jarr-nash, “You may have just told me to go get poleaxed.”
It was all his bodyguard could do not to laugh.
The king’s voice resumed its formal tone, “Though I am certain it does me honour. I thank you. Your actions today bring honour to your people. I say, well fought, warrior from Aldebaran.”
Alcyonne waited a moment to be sure the king was done, before simply saying, “Yaw bre.”
That said, he turned gracefully and marched toward the southern pavilion, leading his horse by command only. As he walked by the fallen knight it looked as though the puddle of blood beneath the man had grown larger.
The knight’s attendants scowled at him, their dire looks not boding well for the knight’s future.
Someone in the crowd had overheard Alcyonne’s last words to the king, and started chanting. The enraptured crowd picked up the refrain.
“Yaw bre. Yaw bre.”
Chapter 5-Thwart
“Javen!” Captain Korn’s voice brought Javen’s attention back to the task at hand. Javen grunted, not wanting to take his eyes off the receding form of his friend. After Alcyonne disappeared from view, Javen turned to see the frustrated looks of his retainers and the oddly smiling Captain Korn.
“Sorry,” Javen offered weakly, receiving raised eyebrows of skepticism in return, the tight-lipped faces not amused.
Captain Korn enjoyed the whole spectacle of the tournament, having worked at them, competed in them, and simply been around them for as long as he could remember. He knew well the surging emotions surrounding the event, along with the frustration of overworked, underappreciated squires. The ecstasy of victory and the depths of anguish in defeat. He fondly recalled the fellowship and the bitter rivalry. The last contest had encompassed all of these qualities. That’s what made the Royal Tournament special.
Hearing the scurrying of field attendants outside the tent and the crier’s jingling approach, the captain jumped into action, marshalling Javen’s retainers to complete their tasks.
Stirred into a frenzy from the joust before, the cheering of the hometown fans followed Javen onto the field.
Captain Korn bowed deeply toward the king’s box before turning smartly, following Javen’s retainers back to the northern pavilion, leaving his charge to fend for himself.
Touted as one of the heavy favourites in the Royal Tournament’s all-round category, Javen’s opponent was deemed by many as being the only one capable of usurping Prince Malcolm’s title of Master of Lance on the tilting ground, and vying for the competition’s overall title, Emperor of the Field.
Korn was tight lipped. This may well be Javen’s last joust. From the corner of his eye he espied Javen’s splendid golden surcoat, the sword breaking upon a chaff of wheat along with his first-born label, all brilliantly embroidered with silver thread. With a wry grin, he thought the colour and design of the Milford coat-of-arms second only in magnificence to that emblazoned upon the royal standard.
Javen took control of Sunseeker’s reins and turned the shiny black stallion toward the king’s box, awaiting the king’s nod. His right gauntlet firmly held his lance upright, the vermillion ribbon of victory fluttering beneath the coronal.
This time around he appreciated the crowd’s enthusiastic support and smiled from ear to ear, but inside he concentrated for all he was worth, steeling himself to approach the king.
King Peter greeted him with a warm smile, nodding permission for the next joust to commence.
Turning his mount to face the southern pavilion, he called forth his next competitor. “Enter God's blessed field, meek challenger, if thou darest. Ride forth and know thee well ye shall face the wrath of the chaff. The eternal giver of life in a world where mere men such as thee simply come hither to wither with the passing season.” Javen spoke with more vigour and confidence this time.
The crowd’s exuberance fed off their local entrant’s enthusiasm.
The southern pavilion tent flaps parted, pulled aside by two flamboyantly dressed retainers clad in Gritian livery, a town of mystical renown nestled in the foothills north of the Undying Wall. The knight and his mount were draped in deep forest green surcoats, emblazoned with a brilliant yellow picture of twelve high backed chairs surrounding a golden eye, depicting the Chamber of the Wise.
The Chamber, consisting of thirteen elders, oversaw the kingdom’s welfare by dedicating themselves to the lore of realm. The council did not enact laws regarding the kingdom’s affairs, but they had the king’s ear when heavy decisions were to be made.
The green knight’s stallion, larger and more magnificent than Javen’s own, trotted proudly across the field, its rider not once glancing in Javen’s direction. At the king’s box the knight dismounted, lance in hand, alighting upon the jousting pitch without a sound; amazing considering the amount of burnished bronze plate peeking out beneath his green surcoat. Many young ladies around the king’s box swooned at his approach.
Dropping to one knee and bowing his head, he offered his lance to King Peter in mock surrender.
“Arise, noble Thwart.” The king gave him a warm smile. “Your service to your kingdom precedes you. I would be amiss to deny you your sport.”
Avarick Thwart, the Gritian knight, recently celebrated his seventeenth birthday and already he had proven himself a man to be reckoned with. The young knight recently led an expedition to repel a formidable raiding force pillaging the coastal towns along Zephyr’s remote west shore. The men under his command suffered minimal losses while meting out the king’s justice; killing over six hundred grizzled, seafaring warriors and capturing a hundred and fifty more, all the while sending the raiding ships to a briny grave.
Avarick was touted by many as the heir apparent to Jarr-nash Sylvan Jordic, the present-day king’s champion and personal bodyguard. Those close to the king, however, considered him a cocky, rash young man who would stop at nothing to achieve his own ends. These sentiments were rarely spoken aloud, and certainly never when Avarick was about.
Avarick rose to his feet, offered his king a deep bow, and deftly remounted in a flourish of forest green.
Adjusting himself in his finely tooled saddle, he nodded to the king again, cantering his mount back to the tilting rail, close to Javen. Finally, he acknowledged Javen’s presence, albeit to say low enough that only Javen could hear, “Enjoy the attention while you can. When I’m done with you, the only attention you will be getting will be from the healers.”
Avarick spurred his mount toward the marshalling area in front of his ready tent. With precise movements, he walked his horse to his starting position and waited, his stare, intimidating.
In the king’s box, seated on the king’s immediate left, Prince Malcolm elbowed his younger brother, Prince Nicholas, in the ribs. “Headstrong, that one.”
Prince Nicholas, at age sixteen, looked much like his older brother, though his hair was a shade darker. He took his gaze from Avarick Thwart, noting Prince Malcolm’s look of disapproval. Raising his eyebrows, he said anyway, “Nah, ‘tis confidence, clearly. The kid’s that good.”
“Humph,” was all Prince Malcolm said to that. Behind him sat the squire with the bewitching eyes; an oddity for one of his station to occupy a seat in the Royal Box.
Javen stared after his competitor, not knowing what to do. The Gritian knight was supposed to offer a rebuttal, but one was obviously not forthcoming. Feeling uncomfortable, he tried not to look to the king for direction, but ended up doing it anyway.
The king shrugged.
Javen sighed and turned Sunseeker toward the northern pavilion. Reaching the preordained starting location, he spun his black warhorse to face his challenger. Perhaps now the Gritian knight would respond.
Avarick grabbed his polished, conical helm from where it rested upon the pommel of his sword, placed it upon his head, and waited.
Javen swallowed, and declared weakly, “Ware thee well, good challenger, for ye are to know the heart of the chaff, for neither drought nor flood can deny it.”
Captain Korn’s voice reached him from behind, “Deep breath, Milford. He’s trying to get into your head. Hit him low, and hit him hard. You’re stronger than he is.”
Javen tried to locate his mentor, but the buzz of the crowd dropped to an expectant hiss; it was time to get on with it. Turning his attention to the king’s box, he was just in time to see the white glove hit the ground. At the opposite end of the tilting rail, his opponent had already commenced his charge, Thwart’s mighty horse throwing clods of dirt into the air, muscles rippling, head bobbing, its forest green surcoat flapping beneath its rider’s wildly spurring legs.
Javen set his heels to Sunseeker and the horse lunged forward, jamming Javen into the cantle. Regaining control, Javen settled into his saddle and concentrated upon the task at hand, though the transition didn’t allow much time for
thought. He lowered his lance in preparation for the inevitable collision.
Low and hard. Captain Korn’s voice echoed in his head.
Avarick Thwart watched his opponent’s lance tip dip and rise again. He smiled mentally. The dip was a ploy. His nimble reactions with his shield to counter the last second elevation of his opponent’s tip would prove to be the hometown entrant’s undoing. He raised his shield accordingly, making a subtle change to his lance’s bearing, only to have his world explode into excruciating, bone crushing pain.
Javen perceived the slight adjustment of the Gritian knight’s shield just before they collided. Deftly adjusting the angle of his lance tip, he drove it home, catching the surprised knight on the left pelvis. The violent impact toppled the stricken man over the rear of his mount to land heavily upon his back; the impact of his helmet with the field reverberating across the grounds.
The crowd went wild.
Maintaining a strong grip on his lance, Javen tried hard to contain his beaming smile as he turned to watch Avarick roll twice upon the field. Further up the field, Captain Korn jumped up and down, his arms flailing over his head in excitement.
After accepting his victory ribbon, Javen wheeled Sunseeker around and trotted him toward the rear of the northern pavilion, eager to be out of the public eye. Passing the green knight on the way, he paused to make sure the man was okay.
Avarick refused to acknowledge him at first. He had truly believed he would carry the jousting portion of the tournament. He was thoroughly disgusted he hadn’t made it through the first day. Slapping dust from his surcoat, he shrugged off the men who came to his aid.
The Royal Tournament Page 4