by Michael Kerr
CHAPTER ELEVEN ―
THE TOURNAMENT
When Peter arrived at break of day, Gorf was wide awake, and had been all night. Sitting at the open window, he had polished his bow with goose fat from the kitchen, and used an oilstone to put an edge on the tips of his arrows. He was looking forward to the archery competition, and supposed that it would entail shooting at paper or cloth targets pinned to bails of straw. He could not imagine anyone being more accurate than him. It was the one thing he was very, very good at.
After the feast, when they had returned to their rooms, Gorf had spent a lot of time looking up at the night sky. It was made up of blurred, dark colours, and he could not see the moons or any stars. It was unlike any heavens he had ever seen. Every day that passed was full of new surprises.
“Wear this under your tunic,” Peter said to Gorf, handing him a steel breastplate.
“Why would I need to?” Gorf asked the page.
“Because the tournament is about life and death. It isn’t a game.”
“But I am only taking part in the archery competition. Do you suppose that some of the other archers are such bad shots that I might be struck by a stray arrow?”
“It’s because they are such good shots that you may be hit, and not by accident.”
Gorf frowned. “I don’t understand. Why―”
“Ah, I see you are up and dressed, ready for the big day,” Sir Havalot said, bursting into the room. “Come now, Peter, help me into my armour. I am making my final joust today, before hanging up my weapons and retiring from combat.”
Gorf saw the worried expression on Peter’s face, and so kept himself between Sir Havalot and the breastplate, which he had put down on a table. After the knight and page left, he took off his jerkin, and Ben and Tommy buckled the leather straps, while Gorf held the cumbersome body armour in place. When he refastened his top, it was almost impossible to tell he was wearing anything underneath it.
After breakfast, they went out into the courtyard.
“Just follow us,” Peter shouted to them as he ran along behind Sir Havalot, who was riding a large grey mare that wore almost as much armour as the old knight.
They made their way to where a great many people had gathered at the tented pavilion. At the sides and behind the main tent were smaller ones, where tradesmen sold their wares. Some offered food and beer, while others peddled weapons, jewellery, rugs, and even small souvenir ornaments of knights and the castle. Farther back still, men were selling trinkets from the backs of horse drawn carts.
“Just like a car boot sale,” Ben said. “And I can smell onions frying. Where’s the hot-dog stand?”
“The jousting is about to begin,” Peter said, appearing through the crowd. “I have to go and help Sir Havalot back onto his horse.”
They went with him to a small tent.
“Time to mount-up, sire,” Peter said.
Once the knight had climbed up the steps and was astride his horse, Peter took a long lance from a rack and handed it to Sir Havelot. It was striped red and white like a barbershop pole, and had a lethal looking steel point at the end.
“Who am I up against?” Sir Havalot asked, pushing his left forearm through the leather loops on the back of a large shield. “I seem to have forgotten.”
“Sir Gilbert, the Black Knight,” Peter said, pulling down the long, pointed visor of the old man’s helmet, almost chopping the waxed ends of his handlebar moustache off.
Sir Havalot rode over to the main pavilion, bowed to Lord Sylvester, who was sitting on a throne under the shade of the big tent, then proceeded to one end of a long, railed fence, where the grass had been worn away from the ground on either side. The other knight also bowed, and took his place at the far end, on the other side of the waist-high rail.
Sir Gilbert was not named the Black Knight for nothing. His armour, helmet, lance, shield and horse were all a shiny black.
With both horses snorting and biting at the bit, ready to charge, Lord Sylvester dropped a gauntlet on to the ground, which was the signal for the jousting to begin.
With a thundering of hooves, the two knights dug spurs into their horses’ flanks and lowered the lances, aiming them over the rail at each other’s chests as they drew close.
The crowd gasped as the black knight’s lance hit Sir Havalot’s shield, to shatter on impact as it rocked the old man back in the saddle.
With a replacement lance in hand, Sir Gilbert charged again, as did Sir Havalot. This time, both lances made contact and broke with loud cracks.
Sir Havalot was knocked off his horse and crashed to the ground.
“My money is on the Black Knight,” Tommy said to the others. “I think Havalot’s had his lot.”
The Black Knight wheeled his horse around and dismounted. He strode towards his fallen adversary, now with a mace in one hand and a shield in the other. The mace was a heavy metal ball, covered in sharp spikes and linked to a wooden handle by a short length of chain. He swung the weapon back, up, over and down, aiming it at Sir Havalot’s helmet.
Sir Havalot was winded from the fall, and thought that a few of his ribs had been cracked. He lay still and watched the other knight approach through the slits in his visor. And only when the head of the mace was rushing down, did he bring his shield up, roll sideways and climb to his knees.
Sir Gilbert staggered forward, pulled by the weight of the mace as it pounded into the shield. When he turned, Havalot was already on his feet, and had drawn his broadsword.
“Methinks there is no fool like an old fool,” Sir Gilbert said, casting aside his mace, taking off his helmet and drawing his own sword. “You can hardly lift that cumbersome lump of rusting steel, much less fight with it. Yield now, and I will let you live to retire and take up embroidery or some other safe labour.”
“Gadzooks! You impertinent dolt,” Sir Havalot said. “You are not fit to polish my armour, let alone meet me in combat. Take your chance, if you can do more than pick your teeth with that dull-bladed pig sticker.”
Sir Gilbert held his sword two-handed, raised it aloft and swished the air with it in a sideways figure-of-eight as he advanced.
Sir Havalot picked his moment, ducked under the blade and head-butted the young knight in his broad, clean-shaven face, catching him full force in the mouth with the pointed visor of his helmet.
Sir Gilbert fell back, spraying blood and pieces of broken teeth. His sword flew out of his hands to pinwheel through the air and stick in the ground several feet away.
“Well, so much for a good fight,” Sir Havalot said, putting one foot on the fallen knight’s chest. “You were not worthy of my time and effort. Yield, and I will be about my business.”
“I will not yield to the oldest, feeblest knight in the realm,” Sir Gilbert spluttered, cutting his tongue on the sharp stumps of his teeth.
“Would it not be better to live and fight another day, than die where you lay?”
“No. I have my pride to consider,” Sir Gilbert said.
“Is that your last word on the matter?”
“Yes.”
“So be it,” Sir Havalot said, and without hesitation swung his sword and lopped off his defeated opponent’s head.
Sam almost fainted at the sight of the head rolling in the dirt. It came to rest with a look of surprise in its wide, staring eyes.
“I...I don’t believe that happened,” Tommy said.
“You’d better,” said a voice from behind him.
They all turned, to find the jester, Pintello, sitting behind them. He looked different without his tunic and hat and makeup on. He was completely bald, and wore a close-fitting doublet and hose.
“What do you mean?” Fig said.
“I mean that Sylvester likes to see people die violently. He is a wicked and bloodthirsty ruler. The longer you stay here, the more chance that one or all of you will meet an untimely end.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Sam said. “I think we shoul
d leave before we outstay our welcome.”
As usual, it was too late. An official wearing an armband with STEWARD stencilled on it came up to them.
“Which of you, er, people is Gorf?” he asked.
“Me,” Gorf said. “And I am not people, I am a troll. Well, half troll, half goblin.”
“Nonsense,” the steward said as he ticked Gorf’s name off a list. “I am Percival Grimble, an expert in the field of myths and legends of Allworlds, and you are definitely not a troll or goblin. You are more like a Bigfoot or yeti.
“I should know what I am,” Gorf said, beginning to lose his temper.
“Yes, you should, but obviously don’t,” Percival said. “A troll is an evil spirit, and is usually very small, malicious, and extremely ugly. They have fir trees growing from their heads, and live in caves and other dark places. They spend much of their time hiding under bridges and jumping out to trap people crossing, to demand payment from them under threat of a very unpleasant death.”
“And what do you believe a goblin to be?” Sam asked the snooty steward.
“They live in grottos, and are mischievous. They have pointed ears like these two fairies with you, and are very noisy. They move things around a lot at night, and are very rarely seen. Pretty stupid creatures, in my humble opinion.”
Gorf grasped the little man by the throat, lifted him up off the ground and squeezed his neck until he went purple in the face and his eyes bulged.
“That’s enough, Gorf,” Fig said. “Don’t kill him, or we’ll most likely be put to death.”
Gorf growled and set the man down. “So what is a yeti or a bigfoot?” he demanded.
“They’re both majestic and handsome beings, just like yourself,” Percival answered in a very hoarse voice. “Yetis live in very cold mountain ranges, and are known by humankind as abominable snowmen. Though of course you are not in the least abominable.”
Gorf did not know that abominable meant not nice, so was not offended.
“I don’t like the cold,” he said. “I live in the desert.”
“Then you are most likely a Bigfoot, or a close relation to them. They are very solitary creatures, are covered in hair, and have the look of gorillas, as you do.”
Gorf was confused. It was worrying, to say the least, to be told that you were not what you had always thought you were. No wonder he didn’t fit in well with trolls or goblins. But why had he not been told of his true ancestry? He now had no reason to ever go back to the Desert of Storms. He didn’t belong there.
“Come, Gorf,” Percival said. “It is time to see just how good you are with that bow.”
Gorf and the others followed the steward through the crowds, away from where the black knight’s head and body had been loaded onto a cart and removed from the jousting arena.
In a roped-off field surrounded by spectators, twenty-four of the finest archers in the land had gathered to compete against each other.
The first round was straight forward. From a long rope – strung like a clothesline between two trees – hung a dozen pumpkins, fifty feet away. And after they had been set swinging by a boy running along to give each a hard push, the first twelve archers had twenty seconds to shoot as many arrows as possible at their nominated pumpkin. After the first twelve had fired, the second group stepped forward and had their go. Gorf hit his pumpkin with eight arrows, and qualified to go through to the next round with fifteen of the others, to shoot three arrows each at small white circles painted on the trunks of trees. The circles were six inches in diameter, but only looked the size of ten pence pieces from where Sam was standing.
“Come on, Gorf,” she shouted, amid the cheers from all the other contestants’ supporters.
Gorf put all three of his arrows inside the circle, and successfully moved on to the next challenge with just five of the others. He felt confident that he would win. A couple of the others were very good, but not good enough. After two more rounds only three of them remained. The last trial seemed impossible to the watching crowd. Brass nails had been hammered part way into narrow wooden poles. And once more the archers had three arrows each to fire and try to hit the head of the nail in their pole, to drive it deeper into the wood.
Gorf’s first arrow grazed the nail and spun off into the grass. The slim young man standing next to him missed the pole altogether. It was a burly innkeeper who shot last, burying his arrow into the pole just a fraction above the nail head.
Gorf nocked his second arrow, took careful aim, being sure to release the string smoothly as he breathed out. The arrowhead hit the nail square on and drove it all the way into the pole.
Sam and the others screamed with delight and punched the air with their fists. The young archer and innkeeper shot well, but missed the nail by a hairsbreadth with their second shots. And with only one shot left each, Gorf looked to have the competition won. The teenager missed again, but the innkeeper matched Gorf’s accuracy. It was a tie.
The steward declared the youngster to have come third, and handed him a small leather pouch full of groats as his prize.
“Just the two of you left,” Percival said. “You have but one more test to decide an outright winner. Come with me.”
Gorf and the big innkeeper, whose name was Murdo Thugg, followed Percival back to the jousting ground in front of the big tent.
“We have two expert bowmen who are equally good, my Lord,” Percival said to Sylvester. “It calls for a final shoot-out to decide which of them is to be named champion.”
“Very well,” Sylvester said. “Let them shoot at each other until only one remains standing.”
Gorf shook his head. “I am not going to kill a man to win a stupid competition,” he said.
Sylvester clicked his fingers. Soldiers drew their swords and held them to the throats of Sam and the others.
“You will complete the contest as directed,” Sylvester said. “Or this collection of misfits will be taken back into the dragon preserve and catapulted out of the cart that brought you here. Do you want them to be blackened by boiling breath and eaten up?”
Gorf shook his head.
“Come, you big, hairy coward,” Murdo said. “Let me finish you off quickly and win the prize.”
Gorf stared at the big innkeeper. He was extremely ugly, with a flattened nose that appeared to have been broken many times, and thick, cracked lips pulled back in a sneer. His head was shaven, and a spider’s web was tattooed on the top of it.
“So be it,” Gorf said to Sylvester. “But be aware that if my friends are harmed in any way, then one of my arrows will find your black heart before any of your men have time to stop me.”
“If you win, you may all leave and continue your journey,” Sylvester said. “But should Murdo be triumphant, then your friends’ fate will not be something for you to worry about. Will it?”
Percival rapped Gorf’s chest with his knuckles. “As I thought, you are wearing a breastplate,” he said. “Remove it, Bigfoot.”
Gorf unfastened the top of his tunic, and Percival quickly reached inside it, undid the buckles and withdrew the steel plate.
When Gorf and Murdo were in place, a hundred feet distant from each other, Percival gave instructions to both of them. “I shall count to three,” he said. “After which you may fire at will.”
Tommy wasn’t worried. His faith in Gorf was boundless. Gorf was his hero, and had been since saving him from the rapids, after he had fallen from the rope bridge.
“One...Two...Three,” Percival shouted.
In a blur, both Gorf and Murdo snatched arrows from their quivers, fitted them to the bow strings, drew back the mighty long bows, took aim and fired.
Gorf was hit. The arrow sliced through his cheek, and carried on, to stick in a tree trunk twenty yards behind him.
Murdo screamed and fell to his knees. Gorf’s arrow had hit him in the leg, splitting his kneecap in two.
“I win,” Gorf said
to Sylvester.
“Nonsense,” Sylvester replied. “He is still alive. Finish him.”
“I took you for a man of your word, my Lord,” Gorf said. “You said that it would be over when only one of us remained standing. As you can see, Murdo is on his knees.”
Sylvester frowned and gave it some thought. “I shall honour my word,” he said. “You are the winner, but your only prize will be to leave here, now, and never return to Chimera. I will have you escorted south to the boundary of my realm.”
As they picked up their bags and made ready to leave, Sam panicked, put down her bag and opened the flap. “Oh no, it can’t be,” she cried in disbelief. “The chalice is gone. Someone’s stolen it.”
“But who could have done it?” Ben said.
“What is this chalice?” Peter the page asked, approaching them.
“A large gold cup,” Sam said.
“Then I think I know who took it,” Peter said. “The jester, Pintello, and the dwarf, Turquin. They left in a hurry, shortly after Sir Havalot’s joust. I saw Pintello stuffing something that shone brightly into a sack.”
“Where did they go?” Fig asked.
“They headed south by horse drawn cart.”
“Thank you, Peter,” Sam said. And to the others. “Come on, let’s go. We have to find them and get the chalice back.”
“Yes,” Gorf said. “Or all the trials we have faced will have been for nothing.”
As they made off with two of Sylvester’s footmen leading them, the most frightening thing happened. The strange, blurry sky darkened, and from out of it appeared a giant, pink hand. It reached down, grasped hold of the roof of the castle...and pulled it open, in exactly the same way you would lift the lid off a box.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said as they took cover behind a cart. “What’s going on?”
Ben was first to notice the sudden change to everything around them. The two footmen had become frozen. They were not real anymore, but looked like toy figures made from lead and hand painted. Nothing was real. Looking back to where the crowds had been attending the tournament, they saw that everyone was the same as the two figures standing stiffly next to them.
“The castle is a doll’s house,” Ben said. “This is like Toy Story, where all the toys come alive when no one is there to see them.
“That’s impossible,” Tommy said. “Everything was real.”
“No, Frog,” Ben said. “We should know by now that anything can happen in Weirdworld.”
“What shall we do?” Speedy asked.
“Keep hidden. Wait until this giant kid has finished playing, then get as far away from here as possible and find Pintello,” Sam said.
–