The Royal Tournament

by Richard H. Stephens

  “Lucky blow, farm boy. We’ll meet again.”

  Javen nodded, continuing on.

  Captain Korn took charge of Sunseeker, allowing Javen to dismount. A huge grin threatened to split the captain’s face asunder.

  Javen led both horse and captain around the side of the large staging tent and entered a smaller tent around the back where his retainers waited to help him out of his armour.

  As he parted the tent flaps, the only warning he received before being attacked, was a maniacal shout.

  Chapter 6-Heartfelt

  “Yaw bre!”

  Javen stumbled backward, almost falling through the tent flaps.

  Alcyonne launched himself, arms spread wide, and wrapped himself around Javen as if the two were long lost lovers.

  Embarrassed, Javen returned the embrace, and with some difficulty pulled himself free.

  “Heh, heh. Ya, um? Yaw bre to you, too,” Javen managed, feeling more than a little uncomfortable in front of the curious stares he received from his retainers. “I think.”

  Alcyonne enveloped Javen’s right hand with both of his, shaking it vigorously and spouting unintelligible words in his native tongue.

  Javen smiled at the euphoric man as he attempted to rescue his captive hand before his arm was shaken out of its socket.

  Captain Korn intervened, leading Alcyonne away from Javen to allow the retainers a chance to tend to their charge.

  Enduring his entourage’s ministrations, Javen watched the enigmatic Alcyonne as Captain Korn entertained the excited man in the small pavilion’s back corner, patiently listening as the foreigner emphatically gesticulated at what the captain could only surmise was the retelling of Javen’s last joust.

  Javen’s retainers flinched when Alcyonne slapped his hands together fiercely, jumped into the air and shouted, “bam!”

  From that point on, Alcyonne shook his head in wonder, speaking gibberish, frequently pointing at Javen with a heartfelt appreciation for his new-found friend.

  “Nay, I drew Prince Malcolm,” Helvius Pyxis lamented when Javen inquired how the large man’s afternoon had gone. “I guess even a man my size isn’t enough to best someone like him. He is smooth. Quick as a cat. Never saw his lance change its tilt. I felt it though, let me tell ya.”

  They were seated in the same section of the baron’s hall as they were during the midday meal along with their mysterious friend from Aldebaran. The great hall buzzed with excitement. Contestants, special guests of the baron, and indeed those of the king, sank into a hearty feast of pheasant, boar, turkey, vegetables and fruit. The metallic clank of tankards meeting each other in greeting and congratulations were heard continuously throughout the hall.

  Helvius hung his huge head in dismay.

  Alcyonne left his seat and wrapped his arms around Helvius’ shoulders. It was an odd sight, for he was shorter standing than Helvius was sitting. No one understood what he said, but the sympathy in his voice was unmistakable. Severing the embrace, he patted Helvius’ massive left shoulder and returned to his seat, vigorously setting into his dinner.

  Helvius raised his massive head, watching the Aldebaranite for a moment. Offering Javen a meek smile, he set in himself.

  On the way back to the homestead that night, Javen seemed unusually quiet. Jebadiah tried many times to draw his son out of the shell he had retreated into, asking him questions about the tournament and commenting in general upon other tilts he observed from the vantage point of the stands. To all his remarks he received only distracted grunts. He frowned. Javen’s silence was out of character.

  It wasn’t until they tended the horses and were closing the barn doors that Javen spoke, his question catching his father off guard.

  “Papa, why do people hate black men?”

  Jebadiah nearly stumbled. “What?”

  “Why do people despise them so?” Javen’s stare so intense his father felt pinned to the closed barn doors behind them.

  “Why, I-I don’t rightly know, son. I suppose—”

  “You saw the black man, Alcyonne, defeat that boor from Ember Breath?” Javen interrupted.

  “Uh, well yes. It was quite a battle.”

  “Quite a battle. Quite a battle?” Javen was incredulous. “That knight was a cretin. Did you see how he treated Alcyonne? He wouldn’t even acknowledge him as a competitor, let alone a human being. Standing before the king, the knight treated Alcyonne like shit stuck to the bottom of his boot!”

  “Who are we to say what the knight was thinking?”

  “And when Alcyonne ripped him from his saddle, who was the first person to his aid?”

  Jebadiah had witnessed the joust, but Javen answered for him, “Alcyonne, that’s who. After being treated like vermin, Alcyonne was the first one to provide assistance. He probably saved the ungrateful man’s life.”

  He turned and walked toward their farmhouse.

  Jebadiah stood where he was for a moment, staring after him. He couldn’t recall a time Javen had been so riled up. He had also felt empathy toward the black man during the joust.

  He hurried after his son. Catching him up, he placed a large hand on Javen’s shoulder, applying enough pressure to cause Javen to stop and face him, just before they mounted the step leading up to the homestead’s back porch.

  A full moon crested the peak of the barn, illuminating the yard sufficiently for the two men to see each other. Rusty, their sheepdog, came bolting out of the darkness from behind the barn, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, barking and circling them, eager to go inside.

  “Son, I saw what you saw.” He paused, and then added, “Why the sudden concern for someone you don’t even know?”

  Javen studied his father for a time. Since his mother’s passing years before, his father had been his mentor, his idol, his disciplinarian, his teacher—his friend. The community of Millsford all claimed the nut hadn’t fallen far from the Jebadiah tree.

  “Ever since I can remember, I have been told, not by you mind, but by others, that black men are savages. Black men are unclean, unlearned, uncouth, immoral creatures that would as soon rip your throat out as look at you. Why would my friends tell me something that wasn’t true? And yet, because of what others said, although I’d never actually met one, I always thought the same.”

  “But?”

  “Those rumors can’t be farther from the truth, papa. Alcyonne is the kindest, gentlest soul I’ve ever met. All he does is smile and laugh. Even when the knight insulted him, Alcyonne simply smiled and went on to repay the discourtesy with kindness.”

  “Aye, that he did, my boy. That he did.” With an arm around his shoulder, Jebadiah steered his son onto the porch.

  Rusty started barking anew, his claws clicking upon the veranda’s sagging deck boards.

  “How can people say such things? If more people were half the man Alcyonne is, our world would be a much better place.”

  Jebadiah opened the back door with his free hand, patting his son on the shoulder as Javen entered the darkened interior ahead of him. “Aye son, right you are.”

  “Papa?” Javen’s voice sounded from near the unlit fireplace across the room. A spark flared into being as Javen located the flint stone and lit the lantern beside the hearth. “It sure is getting cool outside.”

  “’Tis that time of year.” Jebadiah bent down beside him to attend to the barren fire mantle.

  “I don’t think Alcyonne has a place to stay tonight.”

  Jebadiah grunted.

  “Nor do I think he has any more clothes on his back than what he wore at the tournament.”

  Jebadiah, hunched over, smiled inwardly and nodded to the cold logs. Without looking over, he replied, “Be careful with the horses. We can’t afford to have one turn a leg.”

  Javen raced by his father, slowing long enough to hand him the flickering lantern, and bolted outside toward the barn. The cabin door banged
noisily behind him, punctuated by Rusty’s clamorous barking as the dog followed Javen into the night.

  Though the moonlight amply illuminated the country road, Javen wasn’t prepared for the vista sprawled out below him when Sunseeker crested the last hill heading into Millsford. The town was ablaze. Hundreds upon hundreds of campfires, in and around its low walls, served to keep the night at bay. Framing the man-made brilliance, the noisy Canorous and mighty Madrigail rivers sparkled with grandeur beneath the harvest moon; the froth from the confluence twinkled like magical dust in the moonlight.

  He paused upon the hilltop to take in the spectacle. The faint din of raucous music reached him even at this distance, the smell of burning wood perceptible on the breeze. Never had his hometown hosted so many people, from so many kingdoms. The array of different languages and diverse cultures had enthralled him during the two meals at the baron’s manor earlier in the day, but the gaiety unfolding before him now was surely going to take him outside of his comfort zone.

  Sunseeker snorted its impatience, interrupting his reverie. With a contented smile, Javen heeled him to a canter as they descended into the magical mystery besieging the Madrigail valley.

  Approaching the southern gates, they were stopped by the baron’s men. Javen accepted their offer to tether Sunseeker to the guardhouse—the traffic inside the walls looked chaotic at best. He knew the youngest guard and they let him pass without further ado, offering him congratulatory hand slaps as he passed. Tomorrow, the archery competition and melee fighting events were set to commence and they wished him luck. With a grateful nod, he entered Millsford on foot.

  Once inside, the noise and scents overwhelmed his senses. Smoke from the many campfires hung visibly in the air, causing his eyes to water. Aromas of cooking meats and vegetables, slathered with a plethora of sauces, and topped with alien spices, wafted at him from every direction. People from different races, most he couldn’t name, watched him as he passed, smiling and speaking in the grunts, moans, and clicks of their native tongues.

  Games of chance were being held around many fires, surrounded by crowds of raucous men and women, betting and cheering the roll of dice, bones, teeth, and the gods only knew what.

  Stumbling around, enraptured by the nightlife, Javen bumped into other people who weren’t paying attention to where they were headed. For the most part, these casual meetings went without incident, but every so often the person he bumped into would raise his voice and give him more than a friendly nudge.

  Javen, for his part, was too engrossed in the turmoil going on around him to concern himself about the harmless ire of those who strutted with a perpetual chip upon their shoulders. He presented a strong, intimidating presence himself.

  It didn’t take him long to realize that finding Alcyonne within this chaotic horde wouldn’t be easy. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a black man in Millsford, but tonight his attention was drawn to every black man, woman and child he encountered. None of them were Alcyonne.

  He found himself the recipient of a violent two-handed shove. Managing to keep his feet, he stumbled backward into an unsuspecting man behind him. The man behind him cursed at his apparent clumsiness before continuing on his way, grumbling about the rudeness of young people.

  Javen looked at the grizzled mien of the man who had tossed him backward, and gaped.

  The man stood less than four feet tall, but his shoulders were just as wide. He boasted a stomach that hadn’t missed a meal in many a year, but the sinews cording his crossed forearms bespoke incredible strength. A grey streaked beard touching the top of the man’s green tunic above his thick chest provided his scowling face little relief beneath a thick mustache and profound eyebrows. The notched head of a massive battle-axe peeked above the man’s left shoulder.

  “Why don’t ye look where you’re going, imp? Next time ye may find yerself with a black eye.”

  Javen swallowed, apologized profusely, and hurried on. To his credit, the man grunted, accepting the apology, but Javen could feel the man’s icy stare on his back as he lost himself in the bustling crowd.

  About to give up the search and return to the southern gatehouse, he noticed Captain Korn doling out instructions to a knot of guardsmen while quaffing a large tankard of mead.

  Javen politely stood a few yards away from the gathering and waited.

  Korn dismissed the guards to their duties and spun to face Javen.

  “Milford. What brings you to town this late at night? Shouldn’t you be resting up for tomorrow’s events? The archery qualifier is first thing in the morning.”

  “Uh, hey, captain. Um, yes, but I-I was just, um, looking for someone.”

  A slight smile upturned the captain’s lips. “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Huh?” Javen stared at the captain. Was the man daft or drunk?

  Korn winked at him and he felt his cheeks redden.

  “Oh no, captain. Nothing like that,” Javen laughed uneasily. “I-I was, I mean, I am looking for a man…” He trailed off. That didn’t sound right either.

  Korn raised an eyebrow, letting him sweat a bit.

  “Relax Milford. I’m just having sport with you. Who are you looking for?”

  Relieved, Javen said, “Do you remember that black man in our tent today?”

  Korn chuckled. “How can I forget? He’s probably still talking.”

  “Um, ya, him. His name is Alcyonne.”

  “Alcyonne, huh?” Korn mused, placing a cupped hand on his chin, trying to recall whether or not he had seen the man recently. Suddenly, the hand cupping his chin snapped out and pointed at Javen’s face. “Now that I think about it, I believe I did see him. He was leading that mottled horse toward the old Greene barn. The Greene’s are billeting contestants and animals during the tournament. You know where the old Greene barn is, don’t you?”

  Javen’s eyes lit up. “Yes sir. Just past the abandoned gristmill.”

  Javen bounded away toward the northern district of Millsford where the walls separated the city from the Canorous. He slowed to wave. “Thanks.”

  Korn smiled, shaking his head in bemusement. “Bah, ‘tis nothing,” he called back as Javen’s form melted into the ambience of the night.

  After a brisk walk, Javen found himself passing the deserted gristmill in Millsford’s storehouse district. A part of the old stone building breached the town wall, where in bygone days it harnessed the Canorous River’s frolicking current. The river flowed strongly along the outer walls, its waters tumbling from the heights of the steep eastern hills.

  The grounds around the abandoned gristmill were nowhere near as crowded as the centre of town. In fact, Javen mused, the place appeared forsaken. Deep shadows clung to the sparse scrub covering the ground. The noises and smells of the rest of the town, though still perceptible, were less noticeable in this part of the city. Other than the audible flow of the Canorous, the only sounds to be heard in the relative darkness were the muffled laughter, grunts and groans from goings on within the deserted buildings around him. Of those activities Javen did not care to know.

  He approached the old Greene barn pondering the irony of the large, derelict, red structure. He perceived, rather than saw, a group of people shuffling about just inside the open main doors of the building. Not wanting to interrupt the heated conversation taking place, he stopped at the side of the open door furthest from the city wall.

  Several paces beyond, in the shadows against the town wall, another group of men huddled over something large on the ground beneath a lone tree.

  He leaned his head into the barn, unnoticed by the occupants standing inside, their backs to him. Several men of varying sizes milled around, watching something, or someone, on the ground before them, pointing and laughing. They were all clad in identical cherry-red livery, nodding at each other and flinging accusations of thievery and trickery at whoever was on the dirt floor of the old Greene barn.

  One
of the men gripped what looked like a fistful of fine chains that rustled and clicked when he shook them. Javen had seen it before, but without the thick redness that dripped off the metal links into the dirt. It was a scorpion flail, and these people were feeding it blood.

  Suddenly the throng fell back a couple steps. The person on the ground jumped to his feet and tried to push past them, his retort unintelligible. The sweaty sheen of dark skin and dark, curly, short-cropped hair glinted in the flickering torchlight emanating from a few sconces along the interior walls. Javen recognized the distressed voice.

  The dark man was thrown back to the ground before he could break free. One of the larger men jumped on top of him, pummeling his victim with a closed fist.

  “Alcyonne!”

  The commotion ceased, all eyes on Javen.

  A burly man sporting a well-kempt goatee straddled Alcyonne. He paused his assault, his fist cocked in midair. He looked over his shoulder between the assembled men, catching Javen’s eye. “None of yer business, boy. Best ye forget ye ever saw us, if ye gets me meaning.”

  Javen, larger than most men gathered there, was sure he was no match for the man pinning Alcyonne to the ground. Nevertheless, he stepped farther into the barn.

  Alcyonne’s bruised and swollen eyes widened into what could only be taken as terror. He shook his head quickly back and forth, as if to warn Javen not to get involved. Blood dripped from his mouth.

  The largest man in the group stepped up to Javen, driving a sausage-sized finger into his chest, halting his advance. The man’s bald head tilted slightly, his eyebrows lifting above a malevolent sneer. He reeked of ale and sweat. “Ye’d best listen, boy, less’n you want what darky’s gettin’.”

  Alcyonne bucked, trying to throw the man pinning him.

  With a grunt and the sound of skin on skin, bone on bone, the big man’s fist attempted to separate Alcyonne’s head from his shoulders. “Stay down, you dirty whoreson.”