The Pagan Night

by Tim Akers

  “The people don’t know the difference,” he said, his voice low. “Andre will wear some favor on his spear, blessed by the church. The crowd will roar with holy vigor.” Baird shrugged. “A good show, if not entirely true.”

  “As long as the crowd stays for the joust, and we give them the good show they expect,” Ian said, “Andre can claim any blessing he likes.”

  “Aye, well, let’s get you prepared. Won’t do for the true hero of the gheist to fall to some coward’s youngest whelp.”

  They made their way to the stable yard where the Blakley mounts were kept. The nerves in Ian’s belly were getting worse. He tried to focus on the simple tasks of putting on his armor, securing his saddle, checking each strap and buckle and harness until he was sure everything was in place. Then he went over them all again.

  He was so engrossed in his preparations that he didn’t notice the growing tension in the crowds that passed by the stables. When he looked up, small groups of Tenerrans gathered here and there, carrying weapons and wearing armor. The Celestial guards had organized into larger groups, abandoning some of their posts to muster in greater numbers elsewhere. The majority of Suhdrin in the streets walked with grim expressions. Whispers filled the air.

  Sir Baird pulled one of the attendants aside and sent him to find out what was going on. When the stable boy returned, his face was pale.

  “Sir Volent has returned to Greenhall,” the boy said.

  “What of it? Does he mean to join the joust?” Baird asked.

  Ian listened for the reply. It was several heartbeats in coming.

  “No, my lord, but there has been a fight. The men he rode out with… there are a great deal fewer of them.”

  “Was there another gheist?”

  “No, well, I mean, yes. A gheist was seen, but it didn’t attack the column.”

  “Then what? Gods, boy, speak on! It’s enough to make a man insane.”

  “Word is that it was Gwendolyn Adair who attacked them, while Volent and his men were questioning some pagans. Adair’s men ambushed them, disguised as pagan rebels. Volent lost over half his number.”

  This drew Ian’s attention. He knew Gwen well, though she was a few years older than him, and rarely gave time to the social pleasantries that occurred between young men and women of noble standing.

  “Gwen attacked the Deadface?” he asked. “You’re sure of that?”

  “That’s the word going around the tourney, my lord,” the boy said. “They say there were gheists in her hunting pack. The demons led her to Volent’s men, and drank the blood of those what fell.”

  “Well, that’s a load of horse shit,” Ian said. “Gwen is their huntress. She wouldn’t be riding with gheists.”

  “Again, my lord, the people will care little for the details,” Sir Baird said. He paused, and looked around. “No wonder everyone is on edge. There will be blood in the street before nightfall, if even half of it is true.”

  “None of it has to be true,” a voice said from nearby—it was a knight. Ian recognized him as one of Lord MaeHerron’s men, though he couldn’t conjure his name. “The story will be enough to spill blood. The church guards are making plans to sweep the streets at the first sign of trouble.”

  “That will solve everything,” Baird said. “Tener and Suhdra are putting swords into each other, and then the church starts drawing steel, as well.” He spat angrily. “One thing’s for certain.” He turned to Ian. “You can’t ride the joust, my lord.”

  “What?” Ian asked. “Why not?”

  “Tempers are too high. Every joust between Tenerran and Suhdrin has the potential for riot. We’ll have to concede the pennant.” Baird started disassembling the trappings on the caparison on Ian’s horse.

  Ian stopped him.

  “Like hell we will,” he growled. “The Marchands aren’t suddenly going to put steel tips on their lances, are they?”

  “No, my lord, but…”

  “Then I will not shrink from the lists.” He climbed slowly up the mounting block. After a second’s hesitation, his attendants hurried to help him.

  “Your father has already ordered the men to pack, in preparation for a quick departure,” Baird said. “He will want us to leave. Immediately.”

  “If that is his will, he can tell me himself.”

  “My lord—” Baird started again, as Ian settled into his saddle and put on his helmet.

  “Enough, sir. I mean to ride.”

  With Sir Baird sputtering behind him, Ian guided his horse out of the stable ground and toward the jousting yard. The nervous fire in his belly was little calmed by the hordes of spectators and the loose knots of Suhdrin men-at-arms glaring at him suspiciously.

  The air around the jousting arena smelled like hot metal and horse shit, the breath he sucked through the narrow slit in his helmet hardly enough to fill his lungs. Ian tried to relax into the saddle, to center himself on the horse, but he kept swaying back and forth dangerously as he cantered into the yard. The tip of his lance caught against one of the overhanging banners, startling him, and he almost dropped it.

  Sweat drenched the padded undercloth of his chest. The low murmur of the crowd was muted through the steel of his helm. A hand clasped his leg, and Ian flinched away, nearly toppling out of the saddle.

  “Settle, lad. Just settle,” Sir Baird said. Ian twisted around in his saddle to try to see him, but the constraint of the jousting kit wouldn’t allow it. “There’s nothing to this, but it won’t help if you fall into the sand. Keep an eye on your target, another on his lance, and both eyes on your horse. And watch the crowd.”

  “That’s more eyes than I have, Sir Baird.” Ian’s vision began to swim in the heat of the tight helm. Sweat stung his eyes, and the blood pounding through his head was beginning to make him dizzy. “I think I’ll just focus on not falling off the horse.”

  “Gods hope you can, boy. I’ll be serving as your second.” Sir Baird gave his horse a pat. “Wouldn’t want to explain to your father why his son got beaten to a pulp in a tournament he wasn’t supposed to ride.”

  Ian nodded, and Baird slapped him once on the leg and pushed him toward the lists. The crowd gave an appreciative roar as he appeared out of the stable ground, and he raised his lance in salute. Even through the helm, their cry sounded like the grinding tide of the ocean, beating against the black cliffs of Frosthold. Ian twisted back and forth in the saddle, trying to see the people, the pageantry… hell, even the nobles’ booth, so he knew where to salute when the time came. A ripple of laughter went up, and he realized how ridiculous he must look.

  How did his father manage it? How did any of the knights manage, when all they had was this tiny little slit of air? If only…

  Ian paused, cursing himself for a fool. Balancing his lance on his stirrup and resting it against his shoulder, he reached up and torqued the clasp on his helm, then threw his visor open and breathed in a healthy lungful of fresh air. Ringlets of sweat-drenched hair tumbled down his cheeks. His face was red with embarrassment and the stifling heat.

  The crowd rose to their feet in laughter and applause. Ian gave another good-natured salute, trying to stay calm under the gaze of so many people. Oddly, there was no one in the opposite list. Andre Marchand was either still struggling with his horse, or had decided against showing up at all. The grass of the field was already torn from the first few matches, and there was a spray of blood on the wooden boards of the tilt gate.

  A horn drew his attention back to the crowd. The herald of the tourney came out from beneath the Celestial box, the tournament scroll in hand. He addressed the crowd, bowed in the direction of the distant Celestial dome in Heartsbridge to acknowledge the holiday, and finally to Ian himself, commending the results of the tournament to Strife’s good blessings, and Cinder’s just eye. One of the priests in the box said something Ian couldn’t hear, and the herald nodded.

  He addressed the crowd, but his words were lost in the din of Ian’s close helm. The spectators seemed
enthused—their cheering made Ian’s head hurt even more.

  When the cheering faded away, the herald continued.

  “I have read the histories and blessed the match!” he said. “Is the young Marchand not present to defend his honor?”

  The crowd waited anxiously, a murmur rising up. Ian chewed his lip nervously. Then there was some movement from the stables opposite. The crowd rippled in anticipation.

  A knight rode into the stadium.

  He was wearing Marchand’s colors, but where Andre was slight and supple, this man was nearly the size of the horse he rode. His armor was well dented, his tabard faded with wear, and the horse bore scars across his nose and flanks. Ian whistled, low and long.

  “Andre went through a bit of a growth spurt, eh?” he murmured. There was frantic whispering behind him, and he twisted in his saddle to see Sir Baird, joined by Sir Dugan. They were gesturing for him to return to the stable yard.

  Ian shook his head and turned to face his opponent.

  The knight lowered his helm and gave Ian the slightest nod. Then he turned to the herald and spoke.

  “Graceful Andre Marchand must forfeit his place in the tournament, as his good and godly duties have called him back to Highhope,” the knight said, “but I shall serve in his stead.”

  “Chev Bourdais, your name is already entered for another battle,” the herald said.

  “Then strike it. For the honor of my master, the Marchand name must advance.”

  Ian frowned. Chev Bourdais was Marchand’s master of guard, and a familiar figure at the joust. He had ridden beside Sir Grandieu in many battles, ridden beside Ian’s father in many more.

  It wasn’t going to be a fair fight.

  For a long moment no one spoke. The herald was the first to recover. He made the annotations in his scroll and signaled to the attendants, who gathered the Bourdais banner and removed it from the standings. Then the crowd was on their feet, arguing among themselves, and in the box above the priests appeared to be in a hot discussion with a group of new arrivals, these in the colors of the church guard.

  Finally, a priest came forward—the one with whom the herald had consulted.

  “Lord Ian Blakley of Houndhallow, son of Malcolm, will you accept the challenge that has been presented?” he asked.

  Sir Bourdais rode across the lists. Two servants ran out to his side, offering him assistance. Ian knew he had the right to refuse such a change in opponent.

  “I accept,” he said weakly. When no one reacted, he cleared his throat and said it again, this time at the top of his lungs. “I accept the challenge!”

  “Then so be it. Gentlemen, ride for glory. May the bright lady watch you, and the gray lord judge your worth!”

  A cheer went up through the crowd, and Ian felt a great warmth fill his blood. Chev Bourdais lowered his helm and surged down the tiltyard, his horse hammering forward, his lance held high and straight. Shocked into action, Ian slammed his spurs into his horse’s flank, then nearly fell out of the saddle when the destrier jumped forward. It took a stride or two to right himself, his lance bouncing high in the air.

  He quickly settled into his saddle and couched the lance more steadily against his side, lining it up with the oncoming knight. Bourdais was already dipping his lance, timing the descent of the tip to intersect with Ian’s charge at just the perfect moment.

  The wild gallop of Ian’s charger made control difficult, but he brought his tip down—perhaps too quickly, perhaps too slow. It went low and danced off the gate, crossing Ian’s body. He pulled it tight and re-centered it on Bourdais’ shield, but the moment was past.

  Thunder burst across his face and a force like a hammer’s fall jerked his head around, throwing him skull-first out of the saddle. Bourdais’ lance had struck home, a blow to Ian’s head. Whether his opponent’s target was intentional or just bad luck didn’t matter. The pain was the same.

  Ian landed on stone-hard sand, bouncing once and then rolling over. The air left him, and blood and sweat filled his mouth and clouded his eyes. He lay there, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, his skull ringing like a bell, blood in his eyes.

  Someone took him by the shoulder and pulled him up. Ian’s gasps for breath were replaced by wrenching pain and he vomited hot bile against the grill of his helm. The stink was overwhelming as it slithered down his chin, and he pulled free and went to his knees, heaving. Finally, spew-tainted air tore into his mouth. Numbly, he tried to undo his visor to clear the vomit from his face.

  “No, lad,” Baird yelled, and it was the first sound Ian heard, full of fear and anger. The man slapped Ian’s weak hand away from his head. The force of the blow dumped Ian onto his butt, sending jolting pain through his back and neck. “Keep that damn thing on!”

  Ian squinted through his visor. There was sand in his eyes, smeared with blood. He couldn’t make the shapes around him assemble into a coherent world. His first clear thought was that he was probably badly hurt, and he wondered if his skull was split. There was certainly enough blood for that. He raised his hands to see if they still worked, since he couldn’t really feel them, and was surprised to see that they, too, were covered in blood and grit.

  His blood? Probably.

  Sir Baird grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Dizziness swept over him, and the tide of bile in his throat came up and spattered against the inside of his helmet once again, but he didn’t fall. Instead, Ian staggered against the fence and held it in both arms. There were other sounds now creeping through the bell in his skull. The crowd, perhaps, or the herald. And drums. Ian could hear drums.

  Or something else. Hoofbeats?

  He looked up.

  Chev Bourdais was charging at him again. He had abandoned his lance, which was probably in splinters anyway, and bore down with an iron mace in hand. The rest of the world was a blur of color and sound. Sir Baird stood between them, a heavy wooden shield grasped in both hands. It was the size of a door, and just as thick. Bourdais rode around it smartly and wheeled in place. The iron-shod hooves of the horse cut the air around Ian’s head.

  He tucked and rolled behind Baird’s shield, just as the horse landed and Bourdais struck.

  The mace went wide, beginning a game of dodge that Ian was barely fit to play. Bourdais wheeled and struck, wheeled and struck, the heavy iron head of the mace shattering splinters off the shield each time it came down. Ian kept moving to stay behind the shield, and, under its massive weight, Sir Baird was straining to keep them both safe. It wasn’t long before he was dragging the bottom of the shield in the sand.

  A cry arose from the crowd, and Bourdais glanced up. He yelled out, took one last strike at the shield, and then whirled away from the pair.

  Ian fell to one knee, and Sir Baird collapsed to the ground, the remnants of the shield sliding over him as he fell. Ian watched as Marchand’s master of guard retreated to his end of the tiltyard. Several men-at-arms waited there, with the black spear and red rose of Marchand on their chests, wearing chain and armed with long spears. They looked terrified as the knight slipped between them and disappeared.

  Bourdais had just tried to kill him.

  Why are they afraid?

  A sound beat that thought from his head—the sound of horns and terrified cries from the crowd. Some of the spectators bolted, creating chaos and confusion. Ian turned.

  Malcolm Blakley stood at the center of a group of soldiers, men and women dressed in a motley of colors from the various lords of the north. Finnen and MaeHerron, Thaen and Lann and Dougal, even a knight from the Fen Gate. Sir Dugan flanked the lord of Houndhallow. They marched onto the jousting field with swords drawn.

  “Did you draw blood?” Malcolm asked. Ian blinked up at him unbelieving, trying to understand the question. “Are you listening, boy? Did you draw his blood?”

  “I imagine not, unless he tore a blister on his palm from beating me.”

  “Gods be good,” Malcolm said. He looked at those who stood around him.
“Disperse to your masters. Gather your knights and your ladies, and flee the city. Engage no one. Fight only to defend yourselves.”

  “There’s Adair blood in the dirt,” the man from the Fen Gate spat. “They’ve killed good knights.” His clothes were dusty from the road, and sweat streaked his face. “We must form a council of war, and…”

  “We must do no such thing,” Malcolm snapped. “Not today. Not here on the tournament ground, with the fire of the bright lady still in our veins. Half of our men are too drunk to count the months, much less declare war.” He spun back to his son. “Count yourself lucky that you didn’t kill that fool.”

  “Kill? Father, I barely escaped with my life.” Ian struggled to his feet. “If not for Sir Baird…”

  “If Sir Baird had done his proper duty, you wouldn’t have been on this field at all.” Malcolm shot the knight a sharp look, then turned to the soldiers, who were still lingering in the duke’s shadow. “You have your orders. Go. Get out of the city. The truth of this will be found soon enough.”

  “My lord, we mean to escort you back to your pavilion.” One of the soldiers gestured with his sword. “To ensure that the Suhdrin dogs…”

  “Go!” Malcolm bellowed. He drew his own blade, the song of its edge ringing out above the arguing crowd, the dark feyiron blade as black as night. “Before it’s your own blood I’m spilling!”

  The men hesitated, but slowly moved into the stands.

  The crowd was up in arms. Friends of those who had been trampled in the initial panic drew steel, which caused others to follow suit. Yet no one moved, the spectators looking at one another drunkenly, wondering who would strike first without wondering as to why.

  As the line of Tenerran soldiers marched toward them, some took it as a military advance. Drunken Suhdrin merchants hurled themselves at the Tenerrans; others ran for their lives, howling about rebellion and armed pagans in the tournament grounds. The Tenerrans didn’t hold back, cutting their way free of the press. It wasn’t long before the screams were radiating out from the arena, spreading like wildfire through the tourney grounds.