The Shattered Stone

by Robert Newman

  Their leader, a sturdy man whose close-cropped hair was just touched with grey, nodded to them as they drew rein.

  “Greetings,” he said. “Who are you and from whence do you come?”

  “We are from Nordan,” said Liall. “My name is Nord. This is my friend, Ivo, and his sister, Neva.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “To Mirana for the trial-at-arms.”

  The youngest member of the patrol, a rangy, redheaded trooper who had been staring at Neva, laughed shortly.

  “Nordan is known for its wool and its goat cheese,” he said. “But who ever heard of a swordsman who came from there?”

  “Because you never heard of any, that does not mean that there are none,” said Liall coldly.

  “You?”

  “That’s enough, Vassek,” said the patrol leader. And turning back to Liall, “Then you are entering the trial-at-arms?”

  “I doubt it,” said Liall. “But we thought we would like to see the contests.”

  “They are well worth seeing,” said Vassek. “And will be more so than ever this year.”

  “You can ride with us,” said the patrol leader. “We are on our way to Mirana.”

  “Thank you,” said Liall somewhat stiffly.

  The patrol leader shook his horse into a canter, and they set off together, riding north across the plain.

  “Your friend is touchy,” said the patrol leader to Ivo, who was riding beside him.

  “Yes, he is,” said Ivo.

  “He should not mind Vassek. As you may have guessed, he is entering the trial-at-arms. He is a very good swordsman, the best in the patrol and probably the best of any who ride the border.”

  “And it appears that he knows it.”

  “Well, he is young and pleased with himself. By the way, my name is Brock.”

  “You already know mine,” said Ivo.

  He glanced back. Neva was riding behind them, with Liall on one side of her and Vassek on the other. Vassek was leaning towards her, talking earnestly, and it was clear from her expression that she did not like whatever it was he was saying and neither did Liall, for he was looking angrily at the red-headed trooper and shifting in his saddle.

  “Excuse me,” said Ivo to Brock.

  Pulling up his horse, he circled around, came up behind Vassek and pushed in between him and Neva, jostling Vassek as he did and throwing his mount off-stride so that it stumbled.

  “Whoa there!” said Vassek, steadying his horse. “What are you up to?”

  “I would like to talk to my sister.”

  “We don’t expect much of anyone from Nordan, but I would have thought they would teach you some manners!”

  “I would have thought the same of one from Mirana.”

  “You’re talking about me?” said Vassek, scowling.

  “Who else?”

  “That will do, Vassek,” said Brock, circling around also. “Fall back.”

  “What?”

  “I said fall back!”

  Vassek hesitated, glaring at Brock as well as at Ivo, then dropped back and took his place at the end of the column.

  “Thank you, Ivo,” said Neva as they went on again.

  “Why are you thanking me? I don’t like our redheaded friend, and I didn’t think you did either.”

  “No. He was telling me how well he was going to do at the trial-at-arms. That he was sure to be picked for the Queen’s Guard and suggesting that I go to a tavern with him afterwards to celebrate.”

  “I thought it was something like that.”

  They rode on, cantering steadily across the grassy plain. By late morning they were riding through farmland, and shortly after that, they saw Mirana in the distance. It was a large town, even larger than Lantar, built on the edge of a cliff, and beyond it they could catch glimpses of the sea. Shortly before noon they came to a field just outside the town gates. There were tents and booths set around it, and at its centre, opposite a pavilion, was an open space surrounded by a low fence of woven willow.

  The field was crowded with people—men, women and children in holiday dress, men-at-arms in steel caps and byrnies and sailors in baggy white breeches and brightly colored shirts—walking between the booths, standing in front of them and eating the broiled meat and fish that was being cooked there or sitting on the closely cut grass.

  Brock led them to a paddock where they dismounted and tethered their horses. They thanked him for having let them ride with him and, taking the food that Jartan had given them, they left the paddock and began looking for a place where they could eat.

  There was a fountain at the edge of the field, and they sat on its coping and ate the flat bread, cheese and dried fruit that they had found in Jartan’s packet.

  They had just finished when there was a trumpet blast and the crowd began moving towards the enclosure in the centre of the field. By the time they reached it, the crowd was thick about the fenced-in area, but Brock, standing in the front row, called to them and those near him let them through so they could join him.

  Two ladies now sat on cushioned chairs in the pavilion with three men standing behind them. Even without her crown and embroidered purple gown, the older of the women would have looked regal. There was authority in her stillness and the way she held herself, but pain had lined her face prematurely and a deep sadness made her blue eyes seem darker than they were. The other, sitting beside her, was young, her long hair black as a midnight sky, its gloss like the shining of summer stars. And though she sat as quietly as her companion, there was such animation in her face and wide-set eyes that she seemed almost restless.

  “Is that the queen?” asked Neva.

  “Yes,” said Brock. “And her niece, the Princess Devita.”

  “They’re wonderful looking,” said Neva. “The queen is beautiful.”

  “So is the princess,” said Ivo.

  “Who are the men?” asked Liall.

  “The tallest of them, the grey-haired man in the cloak, is Count Jeranus, our war leader. The man next to him is Tarnir, Captain of the Queen’s guard. They are the judges in the trial-at-arms.”

  “And the bearded man in the dark robe?”

  “The queen’s brother, Cadorno, Warden of Brunn.”

  Jeranus and Tarnir had been conferring, and now Tarnir stepped forward.

  “We have a new entrant in the trials,” he announced. “And since he has just arrived from the border with his patrol, we have agreed to let him meet the winner of this morning’s matches.”

  “That will be Vassek,” said Brock.

  There was a scattering of applause, and Vassek swaggered into the enclosure where he was joined by a light-haired youth with a somewhat shy smile.

  “Who is he?” asked Ivo.

  “His name is Dannus,” said Brock. “This is the first time he has fought in the trials, but his father was in the Queen’s Guard and he is said to be a very good swordsman.”

  Vassek and Dannus saluted the queen and princess, then faced one another and at a signal from Tarnir began their match.

  Dannus was good—nimble and quick in his responses—but it was soon clear that Vassek was even better. He was not only stronger, but much more aggressive. He wasted no time in feeling Dannus out but began an immediate attack, pressing him hard. Dannus fell back, defending himself skillfully, but Vassek gave him no chance to do anything but parry, driving him into a corner of the enclosure. Then, when he had him penned there, he pressed him even harder, cutting at him with wide-swinging horseman’s blows. One of these, glancing off Dannus’ buckler, slashed his arm. He grimaced with pain, and before he could recover, Vassek struck again, knocking the sword from his grasp and then running him through the shoulder.

  Neva gasped as Dannus sank to his knees.

  “Did Vassek have to do that?” she asked.

  “No,” said Brock. “Once he had disarmed Dannus the match was over.”

  Though both Tarnir and Jeranus were frowning, evidently feeling as Brock d
id about that last, unnecessary wound, the crowd roared its approval and Vassek stepped back, nodding and smiling.

  At a gesture from Tarnir, two guards entered the enclosure, helped Dannus to his feet and led him away to the healer’s tent.

  “Will he be all right?” asked Neva.

  “Yes,” said Brock. “Though it will be some time before he can use that arm again.”

  Now Tarnir stepped forward.

  “Before we declare Vassek the winner at this year’s trial-at-arms is there anyone present who wishes to challenge him?”

  He waited, looking around, and so did Vassek, still smiling in triumph.

  “It does not seem right that I should be called the winner after only one match,” he said with mock modesty. “Is there no one who will try even a few hand-strokes with me?” His eyes were on Neva now. He was staring at her openly and boldly, seeking her approval, and when she looked back at him coldly, he frowned and his eyes went to Ivo. “What about our visitors from Nordan? Or was your talk about swordsmen from there just talk and do you carry swords merely to cut cheese with?”

  Ivo flushed, angered not so much by what he said as by the way he had been looking at Neva.

  “No, it was not merely talk,” he said. “I challenge you.”

  There was a stir and murmur from the crowd, and all those who stood nearby turned and looked at him. Vassek stiffened, frowning in surprise.

  “Are you mad, Ivo?” said Neva angrily. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Ridiculous, childish ones!”

  “No.”

  “Your sister is right, Ivo,” said Brock. “You should not let Vassek bait you into this. It could be dangerous.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Well?” said Vassek. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Why should I change my mind?” said Ivo, and putting his hand on the fence he vaulted over it and walked across the enclosure towards him.

  Tarnir, standing next to Vassek, studied him.

  “Your name?” he asked.

  “Ivo.”

  “And you are from Nordan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no buckler.” He beckoned to one of the guards who came into the enclosure and gave his to Ivo.

  “Do you know the rules?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “In spite of what just happened, if you are disarmed or wounded or forced out of the ring, the match is over. However, you can also own yourself beaten and yield.” He turned to Vassek. “Is that understood?”

  Vassek nodded.

  “Well, see that you don’t forget it,” he said sternly and going back to his place beside Jeranus, he gave the signal to begin.

  Drawing their swords, Ivo and Vassek saluted the queen and princess and then faced one another. Vassek was smiling again, but his eyes were cold, and now that his anger had left him, Ivo felt a pang of anxiety. He had used his sword only once as far as he could remember—against Harnac the Hilti—and while Liall had told Jartan that he was a good swordsman—and he felt he was—he had no real proof of it. What if they were both wrong? What if Vassek not only beat him but wounded him seriously? For, despite Tarnir’s admonition, Ivo knew that he would do so if he could.

  Vassek cut at him—a swinging, overhand stroke—and as Ivo raised his buckler and warded it off, his anxiety left him. For he found he did not have to think about what he should do; he did it smoothly, easily and instinctively. Again Vassek cut at him, and again, and both times Ivo fended off his strokes, barely moving. During the previous match, he had seen many openings that Dannus had not seen or had not taken advantage of and he saw others now. But, if he could avoid it, he did not wish to wound Vassek, and so he remained on the defensive, knowing what the next stroke would be before it came and putting it by either with his buckler or his blade.

  Vassek was no longer smiling now. He was scowling, and he pressed his attack, striking even harder and more quickly, and at the same time he began moving to his left. Ivo knew what he was doing. By moving towards Ivo’s unguarded side he was trying to turn him so that the sun would shine in his eyes. Ivo turned halfway, until he was facing the pavilion, then went over to the attack himself.

  Parrying one of Vassek’s cuts, he struck back at him, once, twice, three times, then thrust over the top of his buckler, checking his blade at the last moment so that the point barely touched Vassek’s throat.

  Vassek’s eyes widened, and he paled. He recovered, stepped back and tried to take the initiative again, but Ivo did not give him a chance. Again he cut at him, from the right and the left and the right again, and Vassek began to fall back. Ivo followed, pressing him hard, until Vassek reached the woven willow fence. Ivo feinted, and when Vassek raised his buckler, he thrust hard and true. His point struck the centre of the buckler, and Vassek staggered back. The fence caught him just below the hips and, losing his balance, he fell on his back outside the enclosure.

  There was a moment of silence, then a roar of laughter from the crowd, followed by cheers and a storm of applause.

  Vassek got to his feet, his face crimson.

  “I’ll kill you for that!” he said fiercely, and he tried to step back into the enclosure, but Tarnir seized him by the arm and stopped him.

  “Hold, you fool!” he said. “Don’t you know when you’ve been over-matched? He could have killed you half a dozen times if he wished. Now leave the field!”

  Vassek hesitated. Then, sheathing his sword, he stalked off into the crowd. Ivo put up his sword also. He was still facing the pavilion and for the first time he became aware of the fact that the queen, the princess, Jeranus and the warden were all looking at him. Tarnir conferred with Jeranus for a moment, then came towards him.

  “That was as fine an exhibition of swordsmanship as I have ever seen,” he said. “I declare you the winner of the trial-at-arms and offer you a post with the Queen’s Guard. Do you accept?”

  Ivo turned. Neva, Liall and Brock were standing where he had left them. And though Neva was no longer pale, he knew that she was still angry. Well, he could not help that. He turned back to Tarnir.

  “I am honored,” he said. “Yes, I accept.”

  “Good. Come with me.” He led Ivo to the pavilion. “Your Majesty, may I present Ivo of Nordan, the winner of this year’s contests, who will serve in your guard.”

  The queen nodded graciously to him.

  “You did very well,” she said.

  “He did better than well,” said Jeranus. “As Tarnir said, it was the best swordsmanship we have ever had here. Who taught you, Ivo?”

  This was not the time or place to say he did not know, so he answered, “My father.”

  “And who is your father?”

  Again he knew he must answer so he gave the first name that occurred to him.

  “Jartan.”

  “Jartan of Nordan.” Jeranus shook his head. “I do not know him—which is strange. For I thought I knew every great fighting man, not just here but in Andor. Well, we shall talk again.”

  “It seemed to me that you did not plan to enter the contest,” said the princess, “and would not have if Vassek had not said what he did to you. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” said Ivo.

  “Why was that?”

  “Because I was not sure I was good enough.”

  “So you are not just a fine swordsman. You are modest, too,” she said, smiling. “Well, I am glad you did fight him. And I’m glad you won.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Her father, the Warden, looked sharply at her, then at Ivo.

  “Both the count and my daughter had questions for you. I have one, too. Did you come here alone?”

  “No, Your Excellency. I did not.”

  “Who came with you?”

  “My sister and a good friend of mine.”

  “Your sister?” He seemed surprised and a little disappointed.

  “Yes.”r />
  “What made you ask that, Cadorno?” asked the queen.

  “I noticed that he talked to someone before he challenged Vassek. And he glanced over at the far side of the enclosure before he accepted Tarnir’s offer to join your guard.”

  “You are as observant as Devita, brother,” said the queen. “Will they stay on here in Mirana, too, Ivo?”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty. Since I did not intend to enter the trials but only watch them, we did not discuss it.”

  “Well, perhaps you should do so now. Call them over.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Ivo. The crowd was breaking up now, leaving the field, but Neva, Liall and Brock were still there, on the far side of the enclosure. Ivo waved to them, and they began walking around the enclosure towards the pavilion. Then Brock left them, and they came on alone.

  The queen watched them. Her face, until now somewhat cold, softened and a strange, almost wistful expression came over it. When they reached the pavilion, Neva dipped low in a reverence and Liall bowed.

  “This is my sister, Neva, Your Majesty,” said Ivo. “And my friend, Nord.”

  “You are both from Nordan, too?” said the queen.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Liall.

  “It is many years since I have been there,” said the queen. “I should visit it again for I seem to have underestimated it as did that red-headed trooper Ivo fought. What was his name?”

  “Vassek, Your Majesty,” said Tarnir.

  She nodded, her eyes still on Neva.

  “Your brother has agreed to serve in my guard and will be staying on here in Mirana. What will you do?”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty,” said Neva. “If there is any way I can stay here also, I would like to.”

  “You are fond of him?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Neva simply.

  “Your parents would not mind if they lost both of you at once?”

  Neva glanced at Ivo. They had not discussed this and she did not know what he had told the queen, but she said, “We have no parents.”

  “They are both dead?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I am sorry. I do not know which is worse: for children to lose their parents or for a parent to lose a child. I think the latter.” Then as the princess put her hand sympathetically on her arm, “What is it, Devita?”